


Spin

by ambreignstrain



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Dean's just along for the ride, Drama, Epic Bromance, F/M, Humor, M/M, Roman is kind of oblivious, minor Dean/OMC - Freeform, minor Roman/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-10-31 10:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 57,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambreignstrain/pseuds/ambreignstrain
Summary: Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns have been friends since high school.  Just friends.  Bros.  Who live together and do most everything together - to the point where people think they're a couple.  They're not.  They just have a real epic bromance.  Until things get a little out of hand under the mistletoe one night, and it sets everything spinning.Or: a story of bros, mistletoe kisses, sex camels, cheating with cheesecake, hobo Bigfoot, and two guys just trying to figure it the hell out.





	1. Epic Bromance

**Spin**

**I. Epic Bromance  
** i. _a friend in need_...

"My mother is driving me crazy, man," Roman Reigns groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. Dean's bony-ass lap isn't exactly the most comfortable pillow in the world, but Roman's damned if he's gonna get back up again.

He'd just come home from work to find a just-awake Dean nursing a cup of his extra-extra-extra sweet coffee, sweats and tee shirt all rumpled and his hair sticking up in a dozen directions. It'd been a couple days since they'd had a chance to catch up, so Roman had helped himself to Dean's lap.

Dean sets his coffee down and drapes a loose arm across Roman's chest. "When isn't she?"

"True."

"What's it about this time?"

"That big company Christmas Party I told you about? That all the families and stuff are going to. She's on my case to either bring a date or let her set me up with somebody."

"Again? Jesus, dude. Why does she keep doing that?"

"Because I'm almost twenty-six," Roman says, "and she's impatient for grandkids. My dad is, too. 'Son, it doesn't look good for the Junior VP of Operations for the country's second largest pharmaceutical company to show up to these functions without a date. It looks like you're not even trying. You need to try. Your mother is driving me crazy.'"

That earns him another laugh, bright and amused. "What the fuck is with your parents, brotha?"

"I don't know," Roman huffs. "What difference does it make if I show up stag?"

"Knowin' your luck, you'd have someone latched onto your arm ten minutes after you got there."

" _Ten_?" Roman raises his eyebrows. "Five. Tops."

"I meant if you didn't try," Dean says smoothly. He pats Roman's chest. "I bet you could probably get someone in under a minute if you really tried."

"I know I could." It's not a brag. He's done it before. "But that ain't gonna fly."

"Yeah, I know. So who ya got in mind?"

"Nobody yet," Roman admits. "Thought about maybe talking to Bayley. Finn knows I'd be a gentleman."

Dean shakes his head. "Bad idea. Your mom knows they're dating. She'd see right through that. What about whatshername? The one from your office? Becky? Was that it? She's fucking gorgeous. Fucking love her hair."

"Engaged," Roman says. "Guy named Enzo from our sales team. Definitely not happening."

"Bummer."

"Yeah, I don't know. But I gotta find somebody or else my mom is threatening to set me up with somebody."

"Oh, _fuck_ , dude, you _cannot_ let that happen again."

Roman thumps Dean's arm. "It wasn't _that_ bad."

"Roman, she poured a glass of wine _and_ a whole thing of tartar sauce on you." Dean's whole body is shaking with his laughter. He's such an asshole. "How the fuck is that _not that bad_?"

"I still don't even know what I _did_ ," Roman mutters. "What am I supposed to do, then? My mom knows all our friend are dating. I don't talk to anybody at work. I wouldn't feel right just asking some random person at a bar." He groans and paws his face. "I gonna have to let her set me up with somebody, aren't I?"

"Weeeell…"

He can practically see the wheels turning in Dean's head. It's kind of terrifying. Also exciting as hell.

"So what if I went with you?" Dean eventually asks. "As like your wingman or even just to keep you entertained. What about that?"

"That's a terrible idea," Roman says immediately. Because it is. Oh God, it's the _worst_. Dean's got the social grace of a damn toddler, and putting him around a bunch of people from work - including executives - has _disaster_ written all over it. Which is why Roman grins and adds, "If you can get the night of the 17th off, then we're doing this."

Dean's answering grin is all warmth and dimples and trouble, and it makes Roman feel inside-out in a way that he should've stopped feeling a long time ago. He's not a damn kid anymore, but seeing Dean all excited and happy - even if he's about to cause trouble - sure makes it hard to remember that.

"I think I'm actually off that night," is what Dean says. "So I'm there."

"Just do me a favor and try to remember I have to work with these people."

"I'm offended you think I'm going to embarrass you in front of your coworkers," Dean says with a completely fake look of mock-hurt.

"I don't _think_ you will," Roman says. "I _know_ you will."

He knows better. They both do.

"Yeah, true," Dean shrugs. His fingers drum absently on Roman's ribs. "Kinda my default state."

" _Kinda_? Do you have a suit besides one that looks like my mom's couch? You need one. A nice one."

Again with the mock-outrage. Dean twists Roman's nipple. "Fuck you, dude. That thing is fucking _vintage._ It's a classic. You don't argue with classics."

Roman bats Dean's hand away. "You're lucky I'm tired 'cuz otherwise I'd break your ass in half the other way. And that suit looks like you ripped the fabric off of a sofa." It's light brown with the most god-awful plaid pattern Roman's ever seen. Dean has a striped shirt and a wide beer-print tie he likes to wear with it. The picture Roman's mom snapped of him in it is still on Roman's desk. Roman always looks at it when he needs a laugh. "I'll spring for a new one for you."

"I got it. Is it a tux thing or just a suit-and-tie thing?"

"Suit and tie. Plain colors. Go with either black or gray. Shirt with a solid color. No beers or boobs or butts on the tie, either. Make sure it goes with the shirt."

"Jeez, take all the fun out of it, why dontcha? And I'm offended _again_ that you think I can't pick out a good suit."

"I know you can't. In fact, why don't I just take you to-"

"I'll take care of it," Dean cuts him off. "Seriously. Gimme a little credit here. I won't embarrass you."

"Yes, you will."

"My suit won't embarrass you, then."

"As long as the suit doesn't, then we're cool."

"Cool."

Roman turns his attention to the game on TV and spends a little while soaking in the comfortable quiet. Dean's lap is still bony, but he doesn't mind. Never does. It's nice to just chill here like this. A couple of dudes being guys or however the hell it went.

They don't get to do this nearly as much as Roman likes.

He almost doesn't want to, but eventually, he gets around to asking, "You gonna go meet that firefighter tonight?"

Dean's flavor of the month: some "really smokin' hot piece of ass - pun intended" that Dean had met on a call, and had subsequently been screwing around with for the last few weeks. It's nothing serious. Never is. Dean's easy come, easy go with upwards of a dozen guys at any given time.

Must be easy go now, because Dean yawns and says, "Nah. I never heard back from him, and I ain't really up for playing chase on a work night. Figured I'd go to Riley's with you tonight. Say hey to everybody."

"Sounds good to me," Roman says. Always does.

"Who's all coming?"

"Pretty much everybody, as far as I know. I think Brie's sister's coming, too."

"Nice." Dean stretches. "S'pose I better get my ass into the shower, then."

Roman takes the hint and sits up. "Yeah, I suppose you better. Wasn't gonna say anything, but your balls kinda reek."

"And you kept your face right next to them anyway," Dean says. He stands, scratches his ass, and stretches again, his back popping. "You must like my junk funk."

"Go, dumb-ass."

"Ro-man likes my junk funk," Dean sing-songs on the way down the hall. "Ro-man likes my junk funk."

"Shut the hell up," Roman says, laughing, as he gets up to go change out of his suit. "Dumb-ass."

* * *

ii. _...is a friend indeed_

What Roman's never told his mother - or anyone for that matter - is that he likes things how they are.

Even if Dean's kind of a slob sometimes, and can't cook to save his life, it's nice to have him here.

It's nice to see him doing well, and proving people wrong.

Almost nobody thought Dean would make it when he said he was going to become a paramedic. Most people in their high school wrote him off as a loser, somebody who'd wind up in jail or rehab before he was twenty. He had his fair share of trouble. Drank too much and started running with some people that got him into cocaine. Summer after he graduated high school, he struggled with addiction, but that ended the day he left Florida to head up to Georgia with Roman. They found an apartment together, and never looked back.

While Roman was busy playing football and working on his degree, Dean got a job at a gym, got himself into shape, and then got his ass into an EMT program.

Five years later, Roman's learning how to run his father's Fortune 500 company, and Dean's working for the largest private ambulance service in the city. Their degrees - Roman's Bachelor's and Dean's Associate's - are hanging up side-by-side in Roman's office at work. Even Dean thinks that's a little weird, but Roman likes having those symbols of how far they've come right out there for everyone to see.

They're both kicking ass right now, and Roman's not in a hurry to do anything to upset the apple cart.

* * *

iii. _With friends like these..._

For the two years or so, they've been regulars at a bar called Riley's.

It's a clean, comfortable little hole-in-the-wall a couple miles from Roman and Dean's townhouse. Most Wednesdays, they meet a group of their friends down there for drinks and conversation.

People have come and gone, but the core ten of them have all remained the same.

There's Dean's coworker, Seth, who's studying to become a firefighter. Charlotte, Seth's fiance, is the physical therapist who'd helped whipped Seth back into shape after he screwed up his knee. Roman's two co-workers, Antonio and Natalya, both work in marketing. Seth and Finn were friends in college. Finn became a teacher. Bayley, Finn's girlfriend, and Daniel are both teachers at the same middle school. Daniel's wife, Brie, manages a jewelry store.

It's an odd, eclectic mix of people, but Roman likes that.

Work for him is dealing with a lot of overinflated egos and people who are looking to stab him in the back (because they feel like nepotism is the only reason he got his job), so it's nice to be around folks who are not only nice, but don't feel the need to put him down just to make themselves look better.

They're regulars with usuals here at Riley's, and that means tables are already pushed together and fresh pitchers of beer are waiting for them by the time they show up. It also means there'll be plates of wings and greasy mozzarella sticks at the table in about twenty minutes. There's also Mountain Dew and a glass of ice waiting at at one end of the table.

Dean's, since he can't drink before work.

The kind of situations he finds himself in, he can't afford to be even a little dull.

He and Roman are running a little late, so everybody already sitting around tables that have been shoved into a big square. Two empty chairs between Seth and Antonio, which are where Dean and Roman's. They always sit there, Dean next to Seth and Roman beside Antonio.

There's a couple that Roman doesn't recognize beside Daniel and Brie. The woman, who's sitting beside Brie, looks just like her, with the same dark hair and similar facial features. Before he even sits down, Roman guesses this is probably Brie's sister.

Brie introduces her as Nikki - her twin. With Nikki is a blocky-looking dude named John, who is a fitness guru and a motivational speaker of some kind. Naturally, when the word 'fitness' is spoken, it piques Seth's interest. Seth's addicted to CrossFit, and immediately engages John in a discussion about it.

That leaves everybody else free to start talking amongst themselves.

Of them all, Roman and Dean are probably closest to Antonio and Natalya. The four of them spend a good few minutes catching up on what's been happening the past couple weeks, and what Antonio and Natalya are planning for Christmas. It occurs to Roman, as he's listening, that even though nothing much seems to change week-to-week with all of them, a lot really has changed in the past two years.

Antonio and Natalya had just met then, and now they're living together and about to jet off to Switzerland for Christmas. Daniel and Brie got married in June, and found out in October that Brie's pregnant. Finn started bringing Bayley around a little over a year ago "as a friend," and now the two are talking about getting an apartment somewhere. Seth and Charlotte have had sort of an on-again, off-again relationship, but now they're engaged and look to be serious about getting hitched.

Then there's Roman and Dean, two single dudes still working the same jobs.

When the gang first started hanging out, Roman had been dating Sasha Banks, a co-worker whose father was a family friend. They'd broken up over a year ago, and Roman hadn't dated anyone since. Dean never dated, period, preferring his lifestyle of quickies and one-night stands over relationships.

They're the only ones for whom not much has really changed.

Conversation ebbs and flows, the way it always does, and Roman settles in with his beer, doing more listening than talking. Some nights are like that.

Those nights, he finds himself paying attention to Dean more, and tonight's no exception. Dean's tipped back in his chair like usual, black leather jacket hanging open to reveal a plain tee shirt. Shaggy hair in his eyes, lazy smile and a lazy hand holding his soda. Everything about him just seems just cool - from when he's giving Seth shit about something at work to when he's rolling his eyes about Natayla's cats.

He catches Roman looking at some point in a lull and raises eyebrows. "'S up?"

Roman picks up his beer and takes a quick drink. "Huh?"

"You're all pinched up over there," Dean says. "What's up?"

"Am I?" Roman shakes his head. "I don't know, man. I was just thinkin' it'd be nice to take the week after the Christmas party off, you know? Be nice to get away for a few days and unwind. Something. I don't know. I feel like I'm in a rut lately."

Dean sips his soda. "Then do it. You haven't taken a vacation forever. You're due. You're overdue. Been a big stress ball lately."

"I don't think my dad would like that," Roman says. He hates that he even says that aloud, because it sounds like something a cowed kid would say. Dean's expressive eye roll says he agrees. "You know him, man. He's not a vacation kinda guy."

"He took your mom back to Samoa and Hawaii for two weeks in September, didn't he?" Dean points out. "They went to fuckin' Italy in May. He's totally a vacation kinda guy. You're the only workaholic here."

"You're one to talk," Roman retorts. "Calling me a workaholic? You haven't taken a single day off in two years, man. You're always picking up everybody's extra shifts. You kidding me? If anybody's due for a vacation, it's you." He slips his phone out of his pocket and pulls up his calendar. "We should go somewhere. See if you can get like the eighteenth through the twenty-sixth off."

"I kinda already agreed to cover somebody's shift on Christmas Eve," Dean says. "The day shift. I'll be done at noon. But I got a twenty-four the day after Christmas, so I don't think that's doable."

"It's doable," Seth cuts in from Dean's left. Roman starts: he hadn't even realized anybody was paying any attention to them. Most of the table is. "Regal is _begging_ you to take some vacation before the end of the year, Dean. He'll shift some people around. As much as you've covered for everybody, they can cover for you for once. Seriously. Take the time off."

"Regal's the one begging me to take all those extra shifts," Dean protests.

Seth bumps Dean's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure I heard him single you out at the staff meeting the other day." He glances over at Roman. "Regal was talking about taking vacation and avoiding burn-out, and he definitely mentioned Dean by name. He'll give Dean the vacation time."

"See?" Roman says. "If I'm taking time off, then you're taking time off. No arguments."

"I can't believe you actually pay attention to those meetings, ya ass-kisser," Dean grumbles at Seth. "Jesus, all right, _fine_. If it gets your ass to take some time off, Rome, then I'll take some off, too. Where do you wanna go?"

Roman smiles a little in triumph and tosses out the first name he can think of. "Vegas?"

"Don't have to," Dean shrugs, slamming the rest of his soda. "Could go somewhere else, if you want."

"I'm good with Vegas."

"Vegas it is, then. I'll talk to Regal when he gets in in the morning. See if I can swing it."

"You better," Roman says, mock warning. "Don't forget. Oh, and hey - speaking of not forgetting: can you swing by the store after work? I need a couple things. I forgot to grab them yesterday."

Dean nods. "Text me a list. I forgot to ask you to get a couple things myself."

"I don't need much," Roman says. "Just some shaving cream and we're out of coffee creamer. Oh, and some chicken breasts. I wanted to try out my mom's recipe. That one where you-"

"Where you stuff 'em with a bunch of herbs and sausage and shit," Dean finishes for him. "Yeah, I'll do that. That sounded good. But text me anyway, huh? You know I ain't gonna remember after twelve hours."

"Got it," Roman says. "I'll probably have a few other things." He sits back, smiling. "So Vegas."

"Vegas." Dean drops a hand on Roman's shoulder from behind, squeezes. "I like the way you think."

"Of course you do," Roman says, patting Dean's hand. "I'm your enabler."

He glances around the table and notices that Nikki's watching them with a smile. He smiles back at her.

The evening proceeds like it always does, Nikki and John talking more about themselves with Charlotte and Natalya, while Antonio tells Roman and Seth about a new car he's got his eye on, and Seth and Finn talk about the CrossFit competition they're training for. Roman listens in a little to Bayley talking to Brie and about some problem children she has in her classes, and finds himself laughing when the teachers all compete to see who's got the worst classroom stories to tell.

They plan a barbeque for the summer and throw around the idea of taking another group trip somewhere around then, too, when the teachers aren't in school and can get away.

"But you and Dean have to come this time, Roman," Bayley insists. "We missed you guys."

"Just let me know when," Roman tells her. "I'll make plans. I'll make him-" he pokes Dean's side "-make plans, too."

He's four glasses of beer in at this point, a mild buzz on and feeling comfortable. Always gets a little touchy-feely when he's feeling good like this, but Dean never minds it. He just grabs Roman's finger and pretends he's gonna pick his nose with it, leading to a brief little scuffle between them that ends with Dean in a headlock - and not trying very hard to get away.

"You're gonna make plans, right?" Roman says. " _Right_?"

"Yes, _yes_ ," Dean says, half-heartedly squirming. "I'll make plans. I just gotta know when. Or whatever. Lemme go, dude."

Roman does, but only long enough for Dean to sit up straight again. As soon as he's there, Roman slings an arm around his shoulders. "That's better."

From across the table, Nikki smiles at them again. "You two are so cute. How long have you been together?"

"Since high school," Seth jumps in before either Roman or Dean can get a word in. He's just lit up with glee. Roman hates him so, so much. "You watch, Nikki. They're gonna say 'we're not together,' but they act more like a couple than most couples I know. They're practically married."

"Roommates," Roman corrects him for what has to be the hundredth time. "We're just roommates."

"Roman's not gay," Dean tosses out there light as anything. "I am, though. We're just bros."

"It's the most epic bromance ever," Bayley adds with a smile.

"Can we _not_ , please?" Roman says, rolling his eyes.

"Don't be such a sourpuss," Dean says. He shrugs out from under Roman's arm and climbs to his feet. "Hey, I gotta get running to work." His hands find their way to Roman's shoulders. "Text me that list, huh? And make sure you get a cab, all right?"

"I will," Roman says, reaching up to squeeze Dean's forearm. It's habit. "Have a good night. See you when you get home. Make sure you talk to Regal."

"Done and done," Dean says. He waves at the rest of the table. "Night, everybody. John, Nikki, nice to meet you. See y'all later."

He claps Roman's shoulder one more time and takes off.

"Bromance, huh?" Nikki says to Bayley.

Bayley lights right up. " _Epic_."

Roman grabs the pitcher of beer off the table and tops off his glass. "So," he says loudly, "where are we going on this group trip next summer?"

"Depends on where you and the wife want to go," Seth says, cackling his annoying old hag's cackle. He doesn't stop even when Roman kicks him under the table, the jerk.

* * *

_iv. you and the wife_

Dean's boss all but packs his bags for him, apparently, and all Roman has to do to get time off is remind his mom that he hasn't had a vacation since he started. She gets on the phone with Roman's dad, and gives him an earful for "working that poor boy to death."

All Roman has to do is promise to be at her house on the twenty-third to help her set some stuff up, and then be around for church on Christmas Eve. Since that was his plan anyway, it's really not a big deal.

"Yeah," Dean says that night over the stuffed chicken breasts Roman had cooked them, "Regal actually gave me the sixteenth and seventeenth off, too. He couldn't say yes fast enough. Got the feeling he's a little eager to get rid of me."

"You've been pretty stressed yourself lately," Roman points out. "Grouchy."

"Have I?' Dean shakes his head, freshly-washed hair tumbling down into his eyes. "Maybe so. I dunno. Guess I haven't really had as much patience for shit lately."

"I noticed." Roman spears a couple of green beans. "You were pretty hard on whoever you were talking to on the phone just now. That the firefighter?"

Dean nods around another bite of food. "We were supposed to meet, but he's hooking up with his ex-girlfriend. Really don't wanna stick my dick into _that_ hornet's nest. Guess I'll just head down to Flynt's tonight and see what turns up. You wanna come?"

"I'll pass." Watching Dean try to charm his way into some dude's pants is not one of Roman's most favorite things in the world to do. "I have a lot of work to do anyway."

"Again?"

"Should be the last time this year."

"Right," Dean says, not even bothering to hide his skepticism. They both know it's bullshit. Roman's dad is fond of dropping by Roman's office at four o'clock with stuff that needs to be done before tomorrow morning. "I'm just warning you in advance you better not even think about bringin' work to Vegas. I will throw your fucking laptop off the plane. We're going there to have fun."

"As long as that fun involves more than you chasing ass the whole time," Roman says pointedly. He finishes off the last of his chicken and scrapes up the bits of stuffing that had fallen out. "I've been looking at what's all going on down there that week. Some concerts we could go see. Maybe go see a comedian or something, if you wanted."

"There's gambling and strip clubs, too," Dean says, polishing off the last of his beer. "Don't knock chasing ass. You could stand to get laid yourself. But fine," he adds before Roman can cut in. "We could go hiking. Always wanted to go check out Red Rock. Some museums and shit there that might be interesting. Plenty of shit we can do.  I'm still gonna get laid."

"Wouldn't expect any less," Roman says. He really wouldn't.

After they clean up the dishes, Dean heads out to go to the bar, which leaves Roman to grab his laptop and sit back down at the kitchen table to finish up his report. 'A lot of work' was overstating it. He's mostly just running through the FDA's rejection of their latest Alzheimer's drug to pull out the statistics for his dad's meeting tomorrow. Dad has to explain the rejection to the Board of Directors - who aren't all in the research or medical fields - and has to tell them what the next steps for that particular drug are.

It's a meeting Roman himself will be sitting on, shadowing his father with the expectation that someday he'll be the one delivering the news himself.

That won't be for a long time, though. Roman knows damn good and well he's got a lot to learn about the industry, and the company's operations. If the last few years have taught him anything, it's to keep his head down and to absorb as much as he can from the people around him. He'll have to earn it, but he's more than willing to.

Reigns Pharmaceutical manufactures life-saving medications.

They're trying to do good in the world, and that's important.

Tonight, he just copying down a handful of statistics.

Once he's sent them all off to his dad, he powers down his laptop and heads up to his room to watch some TV. It's not even nine yet, but there he is in bed already like some old man.

About an hour later, he's flipping through Netflix for something else to watch when the front door opens and closes quietly. There are thumps There are quiet thumps in the front hall that sound like boots being taken off and set down. Fabric rustling that's probably a jacket being pulled off. The floorboards creaking as someone makes their way across the living room.

A few second later, Dean pokes his head into Roman's room. "You awake?"

"Yep." Roman raises eyebrows, tucks a hand under his head. "Back already?"

"Boring night," Dean shrugs. "All done with your work?"

"Yep."

"Good timing, then." Without invitation, Dean pads across the room and climbs onto what's become his side of the bed, unzipping his jeans on his way. "What're we watching?"

"I was thinking about trying that  _Stranger Things_ show," Roman answers. "I've heard some people at work talking about it. Thought I'd check it out."

"Cool." Dean slips out of his pants, tosses them onto the floor - a bad habit Roman can't break - and crawls in under the covers. He winds up just like Roman: on his back with a hand tucked under his head, covers pulled up to mid-chest.

"Boring night, huh?" Roman hits play on the remote. "No action?"

"Nah, nobody I felt like chasin. 'Sides, Regal just call me. I gotta cover a day shift tomorrow. Can't really afford to be out too late tonight. Looks like another twenty-four hour workday for me."

"Again?" Roman looks over, frowning. "Jesus, Dean. You just did that last week."

"Wasn't that bad, though," Dean says. "I can't complain about the OT pay. 'S worth it. Gonna have a lot of fun in Vegas with that money."

"You're gonna do a twenty-four hour shift and two twelves back-to-back. That's forty-eight hours in three days. You at least getting an extra day off this week? Because you didn't get one last week."

Dean shoots him a look. "You keepin track?"

"Yes," Roman says. "I don't want you to overdo it."

"'M fine," Dean grumbles, flinging his arm over his eyes.

"So you're not getting an extra day off."

"We're short-handed this week. We got a guy sick, and the new one doesn't start until Monday. Things'll be back to normal then. Not like I don't get downtime between calls. I'll catch naps then. I always do. 'S all right."

"I just don't want you so tired you fall asleep at the wheel," Roman says. Dean doesn't sleep enough as it is, and he doesn't always have time for naps between calls. "Regal better give you an extra day off next week."

"I'll talk to him."

"Do."

"Oh, like you're one to talk." Dean lowers his arm away from his face, which is a little flushed. "Tell your dad to stop making you work at home. I'll talk to Regal about an extra day off."

"I will," Roman lies.

He won't. Dean won't either. The pair of them have a problem working too much.

They make it through two episodes of what turns out to be an unusual but still fairly interesting show before Dean dozes off. Roman, fighting heavy eyelids himself, shuts off the TV and settles in, careful not to make any noises or move too fast. Dean looks pretty peaceful, and Roman doesn't want to wake him.

They've shared a bed so many times over the years that this point, he doesn't even think twice about it. This nightly ritual of Dean coming in to watch TV or movies before bed is something they've done since they moved in together back when Roman was in college. He doesn't sleep as well alone, and from the times he's woken up to hear Dean rattling around in the other room, he's pretty sure Dean doesn't either.

It's important that they're both well-rested during the day, and this gets them both a good night sleep.

In the morning, they're still on the same sides of the bed just like always, Dean stretched out on his back and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes while Roman swipes the crust out of his own.

They glance over at each other and share tired little _good morning_ smiles.

 _You and the wife_ , Roman thinks for no good reason.

He shoos the thought away and pries himself up to his feet, padding off to go start the coffee.

* * *

_v. meet the parents_

"So I made those stuffed chicken breasts the other night," Roman tells his mother.

It's Wednesday again. That means lunch with his parents up at the small conference table in Dad's office. Usually Dad orders something in, but Mom cooked enough spaghetti carbonara for fifteen people last night, so it's leftovers for lunch. Roman isn't complaining: he'd eat it out of a bowling shoe if Mom brought in that way.

She glances up from the report she'd been reading, and smiles. Looks a little tired today, he thinks, but still sharp as ever. Pleased, if that smile means anything. "Did you now? How did it turn out?"

"Great," he answers proudly. "Dean really liked 'em."

"As long as _he_ liked them," she says dryly. "No, I'm glad. I'm happy to see you expanding your culinary horizons. Maybe you can cook for me and your father next time."

Dad snorts. "I'd rather not risk the food poisoning."

"Least I can cook, Dad," Roman points out.

People say he takes after his dad a lot. He does. From height to the dark hair and eyes, he's a chip off the old block. Back when he was still playing football, the resemblance was even more striking. He dropped about sixty pounds after he quit playing, and has managed to keep it off. Dad's still a big guy. The resemblance is there, but it's a little less pronounced.

"That's true," Dad says. "Better you than Dean, anyway. I don't think I'd trust him near an open flame."

"No." Roman laughs. "No, I wouldn't, either. Not after he managed to burn water." He takes another bite of the spaghetti, savoring it. "One of these days, Mom, I'm gonna get this recipe outta you."

The corners of Mom's eyes crinkle. "Never. I'm taking this to my grave."

"Oh, I see how it is. You want me to expand my horizons, but not _that_ far, huh? Nice, Mom. Real nice."

"If I give you my recipes, how I get you to come by and see me?"

"I see you every day at work. Even so, you're assuming I could make it as good as you do." Flattery has yet to let Roman down. "I couldn't in a hundred years, but it'd be nice to practice while I've got a test audience."

"Ah," Mom says, her smile widening. "So you want to impress a lady friend, then. I see. That's a very good point. It'd be really wonderful if you could cook for a date. Speaking of which..."

Roman deliberately stuffs a huge bite of spaghetti into his mouth. He knows what's coming next. "Hmm?"

"The Christmas party is in eleven days."

"Uh-huh."

"Who will you be bringing? Do you have a date yet?"

"Uh." Roman looks at his father for help, but Dad's suddenly busy looking at something on his phone. No help there. "I'mbringingDean."

Mom's fork clatters down to her plate. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm bringing Dean."

Dad looks up from his phone, forehead creased. "I'd rather you didn't."

His office is the biggest one in the building, and somehow Mom manages to fill it to the brim with her disapproval. "We really would prefer you to come with an actual date. If you're having trouble finding someone to go with you, I can-"

"No," Roman cuts her off. He sets his own fork down and folds his hands together behind his plate. "No offense, Mom, but you are never setting me up with anyone ever again."

"It was one bad date!" she huffs. "Do you know how many bad and boring dates I went on before I met your father? Do you know how many bad ones I went on _with_ your father?"

"Hey!" Dad protests. "I didn't take you on any bad dates."

"Are you forgetting that night you drank too much and threw up all over my shoes?" Mom asks him, eyebrows arched. "I'd say that qualifies as a bad date. It's not the point, though, dear. I still married you. Roman, you give up too easily. Sasha's single again. Why not give her a call. It's been a year."

" _No_." Roman can't veto that hard enough. "We weren't right for each other. End of discussion."

He gets the impression his mom really wants to say something about that, but what she says instead is, "What about Alicia Fox, then? She's single."

Dad's executive assistant. "She and Kofi broke up?"

And it's Dad who says, "Months ago, son. Where have you been? Even I knew that. She's a sweet girl. I think you'd get along well. I'll give you her number."

"No," Roman says for the third time in a minute. "Dad, no. I like Kofi. He'll be at the party, too, and I don't want to make things awkward by showing up with his ex-girlfriend. Not happening. Besides that, I already invited Dean. He's buying himself a new suit, and everything. I told him it had to be better than the couch suit."

"As glad as I am to hear that," Mom says, "people are bringing their significant others to the party. How do you think it'll look to everyone if you bring Dean?"

 _You and the wife_.

"Not everybody is bringing someone," Roman feels compelled to point out. It's warm in the room again. He tugs at his tie. Reminds himself that they're his parents and they mean well. They do. "A lot of people are coming on their own. Nobody cares. Nobody'll care about Dean, either, because they know he's my roommate."

"Your _gay_ roommate," Mom says.

Roman looks at both of his parents in turn, defiant. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"People talk," Dad says.

"They've always talked," Roman says, channeling his inner-Dean, "and I still don't care. They can think whatever they want. Everybody who matters knows what's true. Dean'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him."

His parents glance at each other, mirroring frowns and unhappy expressions. He doesn't care. Nor does he when Mom says, "It's not just that, Roman. All your friends are settling down now. Your cousins both are. Jimmy and Naomi are planning to have a baby soon. You haven't dated anyone since you and Sasha broke up. That was a year ago. Over a year ago. Aren't you lonely?"

"No, I'm not," Roman says, honestly bewildered by the question. "It's Deans' birthday tonight. Everybody's coming down to the bar for the party. All our friends. I have all kind of people around."

"I meant for someone to come home to," Mom says. "Friends are nice, but there's a lot to be said for having someone special in your life you can share everything with. Aren't you lonely for that?"

"Not really," Roman says. It's never really even occurred to him.

( _You and the wife._ )

"If you say so, baby." She doesn't believe him.

"We just don't want you missing out," Dad says. "You need something in your life besides work."

"I've got friends and I've got Dean," Roman points out again. "Believe me, I got plenty. Dating someone will happen when it happens. I'm twenty-six. It's not like I'm pushing seventy. I got time."

"I suppose," Mom allows. "Well, in any case, make sure you wish that little hellion happy birthday for us. I've got a card for him in my office. I'll bring it down later. But you better make sure he behaves himself at the Christmas party."

"We don't want another incident like we had at the barbeque," Dad added, reaching for a slice of cheesecake.

"Incident," Roman snorts. "Those kids had a great time."

"He started condiment fights with them, Roman." Dad's exasperated. Dean brings that out in people. "Their parents didn't appreciate having to take them home when they were covered in mustard and relish."

Roman can't help but laugh at the memory. Dean had been just as covered, streaks of mustard and ketchup mixing into a garish orange on his face. "They had fun," he reiterates. "But there won't be kids at the party, so it won't be a problem. I'll keep an eye on him."

"You better," Dad grumbles, grabbing the Tupperware dish with all the cheesecake in it. "You just better."

"I will," Romam promises.

He'll try, anyway.

* * *

_vi. in the night_

A couple nights later, Roman drifts out of a murky sleep to the feel of the bed shifting.

"Whozzat?" he asks into the dark.

A gruff tired voice beside him says, "Just me."

"Mm," Roman says through a yawn. "You're home."

"Yeah," Dean grunts. He tunnels under the covers, shifts close, and curls up on his side with his back to Roman.

_Uh-oh._

Blinking himself into wakefulness, Roman rolls over to his side himself and scoots over so he's spooning Dean from behind, an arm tucked around Dean's waist. He can feel the tension thrumming through Dean's body. "Bad day?"

"Uh-huh." Dean settles back with a quiet sigh. He's not quite as big as Roman is, physically, but he's close. Even so, he feels a little small right now.

"What happened?"

"We just got done with a Meth Mom who shoved her kid down a flight of steps," is the hoarse answer. "Three years old. Kid survived, but he was all busted up. Lucky he didn't break his neck."

"Oh my God," Roman mutters.

"I really fuckin' hate my job sometimes," Dean mutters, shaky. "You know it? I know we get people at their worst, but sometimes I feel like there's no bottom for how low people can go. Just when I think I've seen the worst thing I'll ever see, somethin like this happens. Not that I ever had much faith in humanity, but this shit will kill it dead."

Roman holds on a little tighter. It's all he can do. "There's good out there."

They're already pressed chest-to-back, but Dean shifts closer anyway. "I know. Just hard to remember that sometimes."

"That's what ya got me for," Roman says, and he smiles a little at the little squeeze he feels on his forearm. He half wishes there was a light on so he could see Dean's face, but he can feel Dean starting to relax. "I'm sorry, though. That's tough."

"Heard one of the cops say they got it on camera, so the bitch is goin' to jail. That's somethin."

"Guess so."

"How was your day?" Dean asks then. "Tell me somethin' good."

"Mom gave me her recipe for carbonara, finally" Roman says.

Dean snorts. "What'd you have to sacrifice to get _that_ out of her?"

"Well, she sent it along with Alicia Fox's phone number," Roman admits. "I told her not to, but she can't help herself. Her note said 'Alicia is _very eager_ to hear from you.'"

"Yeah? You gonna call her?"

"I mean, Mom wants me to take her to the Christmas party, but I already told both of my parents I'm bringing you, so I guess if I do it'll be after the holidays."

"If?"

"I don't know. She was Kofi's girlfriend. Wouldn't that be weird? I work with the guy."

"Ye-eah," Dean says through a big yawn. "Maybe? If she's up for it, I'd go for it. Mean, so what if Kofi dated her first? If they're broke up, that means they ain't dating. I dunno. I ain't you. Shit like this is why I don't date. It's too fucking complicated."

"You gonna be a one-night kinda guy your whole life?" Roman asks, letting his eyes drift shut.

"Maybe." Dean sounds drowsy, the word slow and deep and rough. "I dunno. What're _you_ gonna do? Not - I ain't naggin', but you're not exactly burnin' it up lately when it comes to gettin' out there. It's been, what, three months since you even got laid?"

Roman clears his throat, tries to ignore that the back of his neck is suddenly warm. "You're keeping track?"

"Yes." He doesn't miss the amusement in Dean's voice. "Gotta be givin' yourself carpal tunnel by now with all that jerking off you're doing. And your computer probably's got some pretty nasty STDs on it by now."

"What?"

"You know. What you get from goin on porn sites? STDs."

"Viruses," Roman corrects him.

Dean yawns again. "'S what STDs are, isn't it?"

"Point," Roman concedes. "What's so bad about liking how things are?"

"Do you?"

"Why does that surprise you?" Roman counters.

"Figured you'd be tired of me always bein in your space by now." There's this uncertainty in Dean's voice that Roman's never heard before, and isn't sure he likes. "Wonderin' if me bein here's the reason you don't get out as much. I know I'm part of the reason you 'n Sasha fell apart…"

Roman opens his eyes and lifts his head to stare down at the side of Dean's face. It's impossible to read Dean's expression in the dark. "The hell are you talking about, man? Me and her just weren't right for each other. That's all it was. People break up. It happens. Didn't really have anything to do with you."

He hopes to God Dean never finds out the magnitude of that lie.

Once upon a time, Sasha gave Roman an ultimatum: her or Dean.

He didn't even have to think about it, and to this day, he doesn't regret his choice.

But Dean doesn't need to know that.

"Bullshit it doesn't," Dean says now. It's pretty toothless. "She hated my guts."

"Even so," Roman says, settling back down, "me and her had a lot of problems. You heard her complaining about me working all the time. Hell, I don't blame her dumping me. Even when it was just us two, all we seemed to do was argue. I didn't make her happy. That's why she broke it off. End of the day, it was all me. And no," he adds, trying not to notice the way his heart's pounding harder than it had been a minute ago, "I'm not tired of you being here. This is your home, too. You don't wanna leave, do you?"

" _No_." Emphatic and firm, the answer settles Roman's heart down. "Fuck no. Mean, 's is okay, isn't it? No reason to, like, rush to change shit just 'cuz your mom or whoever thinks you should. When it happens, it happens. Long as you're, like, doin all right now, that's what matters. I know you're stressed 'cuz of work and shit, but you're okay, right? Like for real. You'd tell me if something was up."

"I'm doing just fine," Roman says with a little smile. "Really. If the time comes things change, then we'll cross that bridge then. But it's my life and I like how it is now. Even if you do leave you damn underwear on the floor. How many times I gotta tell you to pick your shit up when you're done in the bathroom? Don't need to see your damn skidmarks."

Dean snorts. "I did the laundry last week. You wanna talk about skidmarks. Jesus Christ, Roman."

Roman digs a light knuckle just under the side of Dean's ribcage. "My ass."

"Exactly," Dean says, shoving Roman's hand away. "Your ass is gross. In any case, we get past this Christmas party, and then we'll go to Vegas and knock the dust off your dick. Well. Guess it probably doesn't have that much on it 'cuz you-"

"Jerk off so much," Roman finishes for him. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Plenty of times I've found white stuff crusted around the drain after you get done with your showers. I know you ain't drinking milk in there. Don't act like you don't ever do it." He pauses, nudges the backs of Dean's knees with his own. "You good?"

"I will be." Dean clears his throat. "Thanks."

"Anytime," Roman answers.

He considers moving back his own side of the bed, but Dean doesn't seem like he wants to go anywhere, and this isn't all that uncomfortable, so Roman just closes his eyes and lets himself drift off.


	2. Under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the Christmas party. Here's where we start to see changes. Enjoy.

**Spin**

**II. Under the Mistletoe  
** _i. "you're a mean one, Mr. Grinch"_

Dean flat-out refuses to show Roman the suit he bought for the Christmas party.

He goes so far as to keep it at work so Roman can't see what it looks like.

That is in no way, shape, or form worrying.

Not a bit.

The night of the party, they split off to their separate bedrooms to dress. Roman wears suits and ties to work on a regular basis, so pulling on a black one with a white shirt and a crimson tie really doesn't feel any different from getting dressed in the morning. The tie has a subtle ornament pattern in it. It looks damn good. So does the rest of the rest of his suit, the cut really good through the waist and along his legs.

That extra working out has been doing him good.

He pulls his hair back into a bun, trims his goatee, and straps on his nicest watch. Once he's all spiffed and shined, he leaves his bedroom, eager to see what Dean's pulled together.

Dean is standing in the living room in a bright, Christmas red suit. It has white and red candy canes printed all over it. White trim on the lapels. Sleigh bells on the pockets. Green elf shoes with a curly toe. The tie is a matching green and has blinking lights in it. And to top the whole, garish thing off, he's wearing a Santa hat.

It's _hideous_.

He knows it, too, if the shit-eating grin he gives Roman is anything to go by. "What do you think? Nice, huh?"

It takes Roman two tries to make words. "It's something, all right."

"Yeah?" Dean looks down at himself. "Too much?"

"It's a little much, yeah."

"Good," Dean says. He wiggles his shoulders side to side to make his sleigh bells jingle. "Perfect. 'S what I was goin' for. It's awesome."

Roman's eyelid twitches. Dad is going to kill him. _Oh what fun._ "That's not what I asked you to get."

"I know. I found it downtown cheap. Thought it'd be good for a laugh." He spins around. "Lighten up the party. C'mon. It's fuckin' Christmas. I look amazing."

"You look like Christmas puked on you," Roman deadpans. "What the hell, Dean? Dad's already freaked out after you pulled that stunt at the barbeque last year. You can't wear this."

"Why not?" Dean's almost sulking. "I'll be the life of the party."

"Dean..."

"You just don't want me to have fun, do you?"

"Hey, come on. It's not that I don't-"

"Well, _fine_ ," Dean huffs, throwing both arms up. "If you're gonna be a Grinch about it, then I guess I'll go change into my real suit."

"You..." Roman pauses. "Wait. Real suit?"

Dean suddenly burst out laughing, bright and amused. "Your _face_ dude, holy shit. Oh, that's fuckin' _great_. I'm just fucking with you, Rome. I'm not actually wearing this. I'll wear it to your parents' house on Christmas, but I got an actual suit for the party. I'll go change."

Roman breathes a sigh of relief. "Jackass. You do that. Hurry. We gotta be on the road in ten."

He stands there smiling in disbelief while Dean jingles off to go change. Dean is the best kind of ridiculous sometimes.

By 'real suit,' it turns out Dean actually _does_ mean a real suit. When he steps out of his bedroom this time, it's in black slacks and a light blue dress shirt shirt. He's got a black suit jacket thrown over one shoulder. His tie's dark blue with a Grinch printed on it.

He's even slicked his hair back.

There's a swagger in his step and a sly little smile on his face. "I know," he says, catching Roman's eye, "I know. I look _great_."

"You actually do," Roman admits. "Damn. That's a good look on you, man."

 _Really_ good.

"So's yours, brotha," Dean says. "We look _fucking_ great."

Saying this, he swings his jacket on, and when he does, Roman happens to notice that there's a sprig of something green hanging off Dean's belt. It's right by the buckle.

Roman clears his throat. "Dean?"

"Hmm?" Dean adjusts his sleeves. "What's up?"

"What's that on your belt there?" Roman points. "That green thing. Is that…" _Oh shit_. "Is that mistletoe?"

Mischief sparkles in Dean's eyes. "Mmmmaybe."

"Over your dick."

"It's a good place for it."

"No, it's not," Roman says. "Dean, you're not wearing mistletoe over your dick. Take it off."

"My dick?" Dean's doing that thing where he pretends to act confused. He knows damn well what Roman means. He's just trying to get out of having to do what Roman says. "It doesn't come off. I'm kind of attached to it. I mean it _comes_ and it _gets off_ , but-"

"The mistletoe, dumb-ass. Here." Roman strides forward and plucks the mistletoe off if Dean's belt. "You're not wearing mistletoe like that. Period."

Dean holds up his tie, pushing the Grinch into Ronan's face. "You see this? This is you. You're a Grinch. Why won't you let me have any fun at this party?"

Roman playfully grabs the tie. "I have to work with these people. And I'm not a Grinch."

" _Yes,_ you are," Dean says. He sounds like a pouty little kid. "C'mon. I got a nice suit, right? Let me have that one thing."

"Mistletoe over your dick is not appropriate for a company Christmas party. Stop trying to get me in trouble. My parents are gonna be there." Roman holds the mistletoe over their heads. "Besides that, you know damn well mistletoe belongs up here."

Without letting go of Dean's tie, he leans forward and brushes a quick, chaste kiss across Dean's lips.

Afterward, he pockets the mistletoe and moves away.

"We should go," he says.

"...yeah," Dean says, his voice low and a little rough. "Yeah, we should. But you should still give me my mistletoe back."

"After the party."

"Fuckin' Grinch."

Roman just laughs.

* * *

_ii. no pressure_

"Ya did good, kiddo," Mom says, nodding over to where Dean's lounging back in a chair, chatting with Jimmy and Jey. "I'm impressed. He cleans up nice."

"That was all him," Roman admits. "'Course, he wanted to wear mistletoe in a place that would've opened us up to lawsuits. I did stop that."

Dean, evidently hearing that, looks up from his conversation and calls over, "You're a Grinch, Reigns!" He holds up his tie. "This was the closest thing I could find with a picture of your son's face on it."

Mom, who's looking amazing in a brand new blue dress and sparkling diamond necklace, laughs. With her hair swept up, she almost looks she stepped out of a Disney movie. "How well you know my son, Dean."

"I'm not a Grinch!" Roman protests. "I was doing the company a favor, Mom."

"Grinch," Dean says again, turning back to his conversation.

Mom links her arm through Roman's. "I need a drink before we get started. Walk me to the bar?"

"Sure," Roman says amiably. He's already got a beer, but there's still ten minutes before people are supposed to start showing up. It's something to do.

Reigns Pharmaceutical has around a thousand employees, so every year they hold the Christmas party in a large ballroom of a swanky hotel. Only probably half the employees will show up - it's not mandatory - but even so, several hundred people require a large space to fit comfortably.

In the background, the live band is warming up with a traditional version of "Jingle Bells." They're stationed right near a dance floor that Roman knows his cousins will be tearing up later. That's almost as much a tradition as the party itself. Jey and Jimmy, along with their wives Takecia and Naomi, always school everybody on the dance floor every year. They'd already started talking about at twerking contest, and, last Roman heard, were trying to talk Dean into jumping in.

Dean most likely will: he knows he can't dance to save his life, but he does it anyway just for the laughs.

The ballroom itself is Christmased-out to the max, with a giant tree up front and center behind the table where Roman's parents will be presiding over everything, Christmas lights strung from just about every surface, all the pillars wrapped in garland and lights, and all the tablecloths and napkins covered with an assortment of sleighs and candy canes and Santa hats. Dean's ugly suit really wouldn't have looked all that out place among them.

Even so, he's glad it was just a joke.

The looks of approval on their faces when Dean walked up looking all slick and clean was worth it.

Dad even shook Dean's hand, something Roman can't remember ever happening.

For right now, everybody's just relaxing in calm before folks start showing up. There's not much left to do. This year, there's no buffet. The company posted big profits last quarter, so Dad had splurged on a full-service, catered meal for everybody. Roman's not complaining: since he's a Reigns, he always had to wait until everybody else got served before he could go through the buffet line. Tended to be fairly picked over by the time he got there. That won't be a problem this year.

"What time is your flight tomorrow?" Mom asks.

Roman drags his attention back around. "Six."

"Then you'd probably best not drink too much tonight, eh? There's nothing worse than flying hungover. Don't let your cousins talk you into going overboard."

Still such a mom. He smiles at her. "I won't"

"You know," she says then, "not to keep nagging, but Alicia is going to be here. I think you should find some time to talk to her. You don't have to ask her out. You could just have a drink and chat. See how it feels. I know she really likes you."

"Mom..."

"Your cousins are the same age as you, and they're both about to become fathers," Mom says. "Maybe it's grandbaby fever, but I want that for you. It doesn't have to be tomorrow, but you should at least _try_. Alicia's a sweetheart. Your father and I think the world of her. You'd make a sweet couple. But you ought to at least talk to her. There's no harm in talking, is there?"

Roman glances back around to the side of the room where Dean's laughing with Jey and Jimmy. "I'll think about it," he offers. It's the best he can do. "If I see her."

"That's all I ask," Mom says as she steps up to the bar.

* * *

 

_iii. gifts_

Back at the table with his cousins and Dean, Roman sits quietly and watches people flood on in.

He recognizes most of them, but couldn't put names to a lot of them. It's a big company. Most of them know him, though. Son of the CEO. Behind his back, many of them bitch about nepotism, like he hasn't been working a mid-level job to learn the ropes since he started. They think he's been handed everything without working for it, but the truth is, he probably works more hours than most of them do.

If there's a reason he hasn't gone out of his way to make friends with a lot of people in the company, it's that.

He's friendly enough with some people, like Kofi and Kofi's buddies Xavier Woods and Big E Langston. They work in Marketing with Antonio and Natalya, which is on the same floor as Roman's office. Every floor in the building has its own breakroom, and it's there Roman met all five of them.

Antonio and Natalya arrive right along with everyone else, the pair strolling in looking just as stylish as they ever do. After they've grabbed themselves drink at one of the bars at the back, Roman waves them over to the table. Like a lot people here, they're all smiles. The Christmas music is going, bright and festive, and the mood in the room feels light and easy.

Roman and Dean both get up to greet Antonio and Nattie with hugs, and backslaps. They all spend a second or two complimenting each other on how good they all look. They really do. Nattie makes them all crowd in together for a selfie that she sends off to the rest of the gang.

Once they've all sat back down, Antonio digs around in his pocket and brings out a package about the size a small brick. It wrapped in generic red paper, without a bow or a tag. He sets it on the table and says, "Before I get, Seth asked me to give you two this. He said they're for your trip. And speaking of Seth, I have a funny story to tell you about him. But you can unwrap that first."

"No way!" Dean says, leaning forward. "Tell me the funny story first. Gifts can wait. What's funny about Seth? Besides everything."

"Well, that." Antonio chuckles. "You know we're quite involved with CrossFit training. Yesterday, we went a bit harder than we should have. He left before me, and went to go hit the showers. A few minutes later, he came out of the locker room area yelling for a manager because all his things had been stolen. I set my weights down and went over to see what the commotion was, just as an employee came over and said, 'Sir, that's the women's locker room.'

"You know how Seth is," he goes on, chuckling. "He refuses to admit he's wrong. He said to the poor employee, 'Can't you _read_?' He turns to look at the sign, and just goes, 'Oh.' The entire gym started laughing."

Dean _cackles_. He and Seth are like siblings, especially in the way they never miss an opportunity to give each other shit about things. "Oh my God, I wish I coulda seen his face. What a dipshit. Never gonna let him live _that_ one down. I can just see it, too. Too bad you didn't record it."

"That's what I said," Nattie says. "I can just picture him making that Cruella De Vil face." She gestures at the package with her wine glass. "What did he get you guys?"

"Yeah, open it, Uce," Jimmy says from Dean's other side. They're all watching.

"You wanna do it?" Roman asks, nuding the package Dean's way.

"Nah." Dean pushes it back. "You do it."

Roman picks it up and bounces it in his palm. It doesn't feel too heavy. No moving parts. He peels the paper away, revealing a pair of books with blue Post-It notes on them.

The first note says, " _In case you and the wife decide to make it official_."

 _Las Vegas Weddings_ , the cover proclaims in bold white letters. It's got a wedding ring encircling pictures of a roulette wheel, dice and cards.

On the second Post-It note, he reads, " _Roman - for your wedding nite. )"_

The book is _Gay Sex for Beginners_.

There are two half-clothed men kissing on the cover.

"Whoa, hey, no," Roman says, sweeping the books into his pocket just as fast as he possibly can. He is going to kill Seth the next time they're in the same room. Actually kill him. To death.

Jimmy looks back and forth between Dean and Roman. "Uh, somethin' you guys wanna tell us?"

"No," Roman says again. "No, there's nothing."

"I'm sure it was just a joke," Antonio offers, but he sounds a little shaken.

"It is." Roman wads up the wrapping paper and stuffs it into his other pocket. He can't quite make himself look at Dean. "It's just a joke."

"What did he mean your wife?" Dean asks suddenly. "Who's your wife? Am I your wife? Why am I your wife?"

Roman sees the _looks_ that go back and forth between his cousins and his friends across the table, and wishes a bunch of hungry tigers would stampede through the room. Or a pit of sharks would appear under them and devour them all whole. This cannot be happening.

Natalya leans around Antonio to catch Dean's eye. "You two _are_ pretty couple-y."

Dean brushes that off. "I get _that_. _Wife_. Why _wife_? I'm a dude. That means husband. If I'm anything it's your _husband_ , Rome. Come on."

"I'm not the one who started it, man!" The knot in Roman's chest loosens just the same. "Seth did."

"But you didn't correct him." Dean is actually sulking. It's...cute. He bangs the table with a fist and nearly upends his beer. Which is not so cute. "As your husband, I'm insulted. You should be defending my honor. Not that there's anything wrong with being a wife or anything, but _husband_. Husband."

Exasperated, Roman slugs Dean's shoulder. "Shut up, you idiot."

"Hey!" Dean yelps. He turns to the rest of the table, where everyone's clearly trying not to laugh. "You believe this shit? Look how he treats me. First you wouldn't let me wear mistletoe and now you're punching me. Fuck you, Rome. I want a divorce. I don't wanna be your husband _or_ your wife."

"Divorce means you gotta move out," Roman points out. "Sure you wanna do that?"

"Oh," Dean says, blinking. "'S true. Then I'd have to pay full rent somewhere. Nah, I take that back. I'll just make you sleep on the couch."

"Fine. Rather do that, anyway, the way you kick in your sleep."

"Least I don't snore."

Roman looks and Dean and Dean looks at him and they both bust out laughing for no damn good reason. It _was_ just a joke, and they both know better. Everyone else laughs, too, nobody probably caring that they already all sound like a bunch of drunken idiots. It's a good thing, anyway, since it gets everybody's mind off of Seth's stupid Christmas present.

A little bit later, when Jimmy and Jey wander off to go investigate the dance floor and Antonio and Nattie head off to grab another round of drinks, Dean looks at Roman and says, "I can't believe that little fucker got you a book on gay sex."

"I know," Roman says, "but keep your voice down."

"It's fucking insulting." Of course Dean's not done. "Does he think there's anything that book could teach you that I couldn't? I have, you know, _actual experience_. With actual guys. Fucking jerk-off. First he calls me your wife and then he implies I'm not good enough to teach you how to fuck dudes. What is that?"

"A joke?" Roman suggests, glancing around the ballroom in hopes of finding something to distract Dean. Of course there's nothing. Inwardly, he sighs. "Just a joke. A bad one. Don't worry about it."

"I'm just saying I could teach you," Dean mutters. "Hypothetically speaking, if there was wanted to know, you could ask me. I'm a damn good teacher."

"Like I'd ask anybody else," Roman says. Sometimes it's just easier to play along. He spots movement out of the corner of his eye and smiles his relief. An army of servers swarm in with plates of food on carts. "Looks like we got dinner coming."

 _It's just a joke,_ he reminds himself, but he still wonders.

( _You and the wife_.)

* * *

_iv. shut up and dance (i)_

Roman's dad gives a nice welcome speech to everybody, and then they all settle in to eat.

All throughout, Roman feels like he's about half a beat off of what's going on around him.

While everybody steers well clear of Seth's little joke, Roman's amazed people can't see it on face: _I have a how-to guide for gay sex in my pocket_.

He's never been the kind of guy who talks much when he eats (they've always had a running joke that he's like Homer Simpson that way - "Can't talk, eating."), so nobody bothers him while he does. Dean's too busy arguing about the NFL playoffs with Jey, and Antonio's deep in conversation with Naomi and the others about the trip he and Nattie are taking to Switzerland. If the joke's bothering Dean at all, it doesn't show, but stuff like that tends not to stick to him.

It shouldn't.

The band's good with the Christmas music and the food's great - his prime rib is phenomenal - and it looks like people are having a good time so far.

Dad starts giving away some of the door prizes while everybody's finishing up their meals. That's a tradition, too. There's everything from jackets to TVs to gift cards. Roman doesn't pay a lot of attention to it, since he's not eligible to win - family and all. But he does look up from the slice of fudgy chocolate cake he's working his way through when he hears Dad call, "Thousand dollar gift card goes to...Alicia Fox! All right!"

From about the middle of the ballroom, a tall, beautiful woman in a gold-trimmed black dress gets up from a table and makes her way to the front. She's smiling almost brighter than the lights in the room. It's a nice gift, so Roman doesn't exactly blame her.

Dean nudges Roman's ribs and says, "She is _hot_ , dude. Holy shit."

"Uh-huh," Roman says noncommittally.

"Gonna go talk to her?" Dean asks.

Roman shoots him an annoyed look, and turns back to the cake. "I'm gonna finish my food. After that, I don't know. If I feel like it, maybe, but if I don't, then no. I don't wanna hear a word. Mom's already been on my back about it. I don't need you there, too."

He can practically feel Dean pull away. "It was just a question, Rome. Jesus. Lighten up. I didn't say _go talk to her_. I just asked if you were."

"Sorry,"Roman says. He looks over and finds Dean studying him, unreadable. "Just tired of it getting shoved in my face. When I'm ready to date, I will."

"Gotcha. Sorry, brotha. Didn't mean to push." Dean swings to his feet and shrugs out of his jacket. "I'm gonna go grab another beer and I think - Jey, are you guys headed to the dance floor pretty soon?"

Jey leans back in his chair and pats his stomach. "Yessir. Gotta go burn all this food off."

"I'm goin' with them, then," Dean says to Roman. "Come bust a move with us when you're done."

"Not happenin." Roman's firm. "Left my bust a move days back in college. You know that."

By way of reply, Dean holds up his tie. He points at the Grinch, and then at Roman. "You. This is you."

Chuckling, Roman waves him off. "Go have fun, Dance Machine. Lemme enjoy my dessert."

"Oh, I see how it is. You just wanna be alone so you cheat on me with that cheesecake." Dean lifts his chin and narrows his eyes in mock-suspicion. "What's that cake got that I don't?"

"It's cheesecake, babe," Roman deadpans. "In short, everything."

There's kind of a weird pause after he says this, and he looks up to find the whole table looking at him like he just tried to claim fish were mammals or something.

Before he can ask what's up, Dean breaks the tension with an eyeroll and a huff. "Be that way, then, dick. Guess I'll leave you and your little hussy cake there alone. Hope you'll be very happy together."

Roman takes a deliberate bite and licks his fork clean. "Ohhh, man, that's the stuff right there. Nice and sweet and creamy. This sweet graham cracker crust. I am in _heaven_. Mm mm _mmm._ "

Because he's nowhere near as mature as he likes to pretend.

Meanwhile, Dean's staring, and he's gone a little red in the face again. "You... Fuck you," he splutters. "I'm keeping the townhouse in the divorce. I get Mitch, too. You can move in with graham cracker crusty there. See how long that lasts. She might taste sweet, but she's totally empty calories. No real nutritional value. Unlike me. I'm wholesome."

He cracks a smile, while Roman throws his head back and laughs. So does the rest of the table: _wholesome_ is not a word that comes to mind when people think about Dean Ambrose. "You're full of shit, Ambrose."

"I'm full of vitamins D, E, A, and N, Reigns. Those are essential for a healthy lifestyle. Which you're gonna be missing out on." Dean honest-to-God sticks his tongue out before heads off to get himself another beer. "Have fun with your crusty hussy."

"I will," Roman calls after him, chuckling. He takes another bite of his cheesecake, and realizes everybody's looking at him again. "What?"

"Nothing, Uce," Jimmy says, his chair scraping the floor when he stands up. "I think we're all gonna hit it."

Everybody but Roman, Nattie, and Antonio abandons the table for the dance floor, which is actually right next to the table here. It's a good view.

As soon as they're all gone, Antonio turns to Roman and says, "Who's Mitch?"

"It's our potted plant," Roman says, sheepish.

Antonio raises a bushy eyebrow. "You named your potted plant?"

"We got him back in the old apartment in Atlanta," Roman admits. "Dean really wanted a puppy, but we couldn't get one, obviously. We settled on a ficus. Yes, Dean named him Mitch. He loves that thing." He's lost count of how many times he's caught Dean singing to it over the years. "Don't ask."

"I've found it best not to when it comes to Dean," Antonio says, stifling a snort behind his hand.

"No kidding."

Roman turns his attention back out to the dance floor.

The band switches from mellower Christmas songs to some uptempo ones. They play a sort of funky, jazz-rocky version of "Jingle Bell Rock" that really gets everything kicked off. And Jey and Jimmy are enthusiastic and infectious, laughing loud and clearly having fun while they get down with Takecia and Naomi. People wander over to check it out, with a few more venturing out to dance themselves.

Roman spots Kofi and Big E among them, with Xavier busy talking to a couple ladies on the sidelines.

And then there's Dean, out there in the middle of it all.

He's got rhythm, but his "moves" look more like he's caught in a bad earthquake than anything like coordinated dancing. Compared to rest of the folks out there, he's an awkward rubber ball bouncing around with no real rhyme or reason.

But everyone just laughs and jams along with him, anyway, everyone flailing along like they're at a metal concert or something. Then Big E, suit and all, drops down to start twerking.

Dean tries it himself.

Mostly he just looks like he's trying to wiggle a wedgie out of his asscrack.

And Roman damn near dies from both secondhand embarrassment and from the laughter. Antonio and Nattie are both pretty much in tears, Antonio helplessly banging the table and Nattie with her face hidden against Roman's arm. People on the dance floor just clap and shout encouragements, and Dean just dances away - totally in on the joke, and absolutely willing to be outrageous to be entertaining.

Although he wants to pretend he doesn't know Dean, there's a part of Roman that wants to point and proclaim, _That's my idiot right there._

"G-God," Nattie says, as Dean finally stops twerking and just goes back to his caught-in-an-earthquake dance, "you two are gonna have so fun in Las Vegas." She dabs at her eyes. "Oh my God."

"Will will," Roman agrees. "For sure."

"Y'know," she says, leaning a little closer, "they say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

Roman's had enough beers already to fuzz things around the edges a little, so he blinks at her. "So?"

" _So_." She glances Dean's way. "Put that book to good use."

"No," Antonio cuts in. He lays a gentle hand on top of hers. "Don't say such things. Leave them be. Remember? Seth shouldn't have even given them those books. It was a poor joke. I'm sorry," he adds to Roman. "It's the wine talking, I think."

"Right," Roman mutters into his own beer. He wipes a damp palm on his slacks. "The wine."

Antonio leans a little closer. "For what it's worth, we actually all do know it's not like that with you and Dean. We're only teasing. None of us actually think you two should do or be anything but what you wish to. If we're going too far with this, say the word and I'll tell everyone to back off."

"Christmas conga line!" Dean suddenly yells from the middle of the dance floor. He has co-opted somebody's Santa hat, the red it in it the same color as his face. "Roman, 'Tonio, Nattie! C'mon. Jump in on this!"

Roman smiles at him, grateful for the in interruption. This is not a conversation he wants to have now. Or ever. Talking about it just makes it awkward. "Just tell Seth to lay off the gay sex books, and I think we'll be fine."

 _Just a joke,_ he tells himself again.

Antonio helps Nattie to her feet. "That's fair."

The band plays something that that sounds both Christmas-y and has the right kind of vibe for a conga line. Roman steps into place behind Dean, who's, of course, the head of the line. He's bright eyes and dimples, Dean is, and Roman has never been able to resist that. He just drops his hands onto Dean's waist and goes with it.

Sometimes it's just easier to give into the madness.

More fun, too.

They snake around between the tables in a laughing, uncoordinated mess of people, and manage to snag about half the people in the room. Roman's parents just shake their heads and jump in themselves. Because they can. Because _why not_? Everybody else is having fun.

At the front of the line, Dean twists and wiggles and leads the party on.

* * *

_v. shut up and dance (ii)_

The line makes a couple trips around the room before it breaks up, a giddy, giggling crowd heading back to their tables and drinks while the army of servers thread between tables to clear up all the plates.

Roman decides he needs to use the restrooms, and squeezes Dean's sweaty shoulder. "Know where the bathrooms are?"

Dean, a little out of breath and pretty flushed, says, "I'll show ya."

He leads the way out the crowded ballroom, and directs Roman out into a cool, quiet hallway. Roman loosens his tie and pops the button on his shirt, grateful for the chance to break away. "Warm in there."

"Lotta people dancin 'n makin it hot," Dean says, with a little silly shimmy. He pauses at the side of the hall and points at a set of doors at one end. "It's down there."

"Thanks," Roman says, and heads off alone to take care of business.

He doesn't expect Dean to wait for him, but Dean is, in fact, waiting for him afterward, leaned sideways against the ballroom door, a beer in hand and the little white puff on his Santa hat bobbing along to the music. It's a slow song: "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas," with a saxophone carrying the main melody.

There's mistletoe hanging in the doorway that Roman hadn't even noticed on the way out, green leaves hung by a red ribbon with a little bow at the top.

He sidles up behind Dean and wraps arms around him, tucking his chin on top of Dean's shoulder. "You havin' fun?"

When Dean nods, the red fuzz on his hat tickles Roman's jaw. "'Course I am. You work with some fun people. Fuckin' Christmas conga, man. Tell me that shit wasn't a blast."

"It was," Roman chuckles. "Did you see my parents?"

"That was _awesome_. Your old man's got some moves, man. What happened to you?"

"Hey, just because I don't _like_ to dance doesn't mean I _can't_ ," Roman protests.

Dean pulls out of Roman's hold, but only so he can turn around. "Prove it," he says, stepping back into Roman's personal space. This close, Roman's struck by just how _blue_ his eyes are. The blue in that damn dress shirt just turns it up to eleven. "Dance with me."

It's a challenge, and Roman's never been one to step away from one. He pulls Dean in so close they're basically hugging, and starts slow dancing with him right there in the doorway. They're not doing much more than swaying back and forth to the snare drum's soft four-quarter beats, but Roman keeps time and doesn't step on Dean's feet.

Dean rests his cheek on Roman's shoulder. "'S wasn't exactly what I had in mind, you know."

"You asked me to dance with you," Roman says, "so I'm dancing with you." He lets his hands slide down toward the small of Dean's back and clasps them together there. "You didn't say how I had to do it. Why? What did you have in mind?"

"Hopin to see you twerk."

"Never happen."

"Why not? You're denyin' everybody a nice view of your ass. 'S not fair."

Heat blooms along the back of Roman's neck, leaving him a little flustered. "Shut up and dance."

They do, just quietly moving along while Dean hums the melody under his breath. Roman closes his eyes and goes with it, letting himself forget all about the party and pushy parents and nosy friends and bad jokes, and just focusing on the music.

He almost doesn't want the song to end, but eventually it does, the last sax note fading out. The band picks up something more uptempo as people start clapping inside.

Reluctant as anything, Roman opens eyes and lifts his head. Dean does the same. They don't let go, though, but instead just sort of stand there looking at each other. There's not much in the way of expression on Dean's face, so Roman has no idea what he's thinking. Doesn't even know what he's thinking himself, except that there's mistletoe overhead - they're right under it - and it's cheesy, but it's a Christmas tradition.

He flicks his up deliberately to give Dean a heads-up what's coming, and then he leans in, just meaning to give Dean a quick peck on the mouth like he had earlier tonight.

Except he doesn't pull away after that first brush, and neither does Dean. Things happen so fast Roman's brain can't even keep up: one second he's just touching his lips to the corner of Dean's mouth, and the next, Dean turns into it so Roman catches him full on. And there's a second where they both freeze up, like it hits them what they're doing, but either Dean moves or Roman does - maybe they both do - and then they're kissing.

Dean tastes like alcohol and smells like aftershave and isn't soft in any of the ways Roman's come to expect when he kisses someone. His lips are firm and dry, and he kisses like he seems to do everything: headfirst and confident, mouth restless against Roman's even when it opens in blatant invitation.

There's a part of Roman telling him to _stop_ , but the rest of him's buzzing with this weird, heady feeling of knowing he probably shouldn't be doing this, but not wanting to stop because it's just a kiss. They're under the mistletoe, so who cares? It doesn't matter. He cups Dean's fiery-hot cheek and lets his tongue venture into Dean's mouth and closes his eyes and focuses on the way it feels when Dean curls his own tongue around Roman's and sucks on them both.

 _Okay. Okay. All right. Okay_.

They're kissing and it's - it's okay. It's all right. It's...

_Good._

It's good.

Lost in all this sudden sensory overload is the part where they're standing in the doorway to a ballroom where nearly five hundred people are gathered. Roman forgets because everything his head narrows down to _how this feels_ and how he likes the way Dean's moving with him and how he really likes the bitten off little noise Dean makes there and how he doesn't want this end, either.

It does, though, because Roman needs air.

He breaks away without letting go, resting his forehead against Dean's, just breathing.

"...wow," he hears Dean mutter.

"Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, wow."

When they finally step back, Dean looks at Roman with big, surprised eyes, and something soft in them Roman's never seen before. His face is flushed a hectic red, and the hand that floats to his face to wipe his chin seems jittery. Roman wipes his own well-kissed mouth on his sleeve, not looking away. He can't, and he doesn't know why anymore than he knows why he's feeling a little inside-out again, his stomach doing that weird roll.

"What," Dean croaks. He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. Looks confused. "What was _that_?"

Roman points at the mistletoe, and smiles. "Guess we got a little caught up in it, huh?"

"I - yeah," Dean says with a frantic little nod. A little bit of his hair falls down onto his forehead. "Yeah, that was, uh, huh. Carried away. You're. Good at that, though."

"So are you," Roman admits, reaching over to brush Dean's stray hair back into place. It hits him again when he does just how _blue_ Dean's eyes are.

The band changes songs again, a sudden loud crashing of cymbals that makes Roman's heart lurch a little. The bubble pops, and Roman steps back again, smoothing his own jacket's front. He finally gets around to remembering where they are. He doesn't want to. This is nice. But reality doesn't seem to let nice things last for very long, he's noticed.

Worse, when he does turn to look into the ballroom, he finds they've got an audience. People are watching them: a lot of strangers, his cousins and their wives from the edge of the dance floor, his parents from up near the piano. Alicia, too. She's up with them, a drink in her hand. They're all too far away for him to see their expressions - and he's glad. Antonio and Nattie are closer, and he can see both of them smiling at him for some reason.

He smiles back, baffled.

"Uh," Dean says, clearing his throat again.

"Don't worry about it," Roman says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Just the mistletoe. You know how it goes. Come on. Let's get back to the party."

It's best, he thinks, to put in that box - mistletoe - and leave it there.

"...right," Dean says, flat and soft. "Mistletoe. Just the mistletoe."

He doesn't quite sound like he believes it, but Roman lets it go and heads back into the party, shoulders square and his head up. So what if he'd just kissed his best friend in front of everybody? It's not _normal_ , but it's also a party and there's booze and everybody's feeling good and there's mistletoe, and sometimes _not-normal_ things happen.

They especially seem to happen around Dean.

"I'm gonna get a drink," he tells Dean.

And Dean says, "I'm gonna head back to the floor."

"Have fun," Roman says, smiling at a couple of the people who'd been watching them.

* * *

_vi. it's not like that_

The bar on the opposite side of the ballroom is a lot less busy than the one closer to him, so Roman heads that way. He doesn't mind the walk - the chance to settle back into his skin, and shake off the weird feeling. People keep looking at him, but he keeps his back straight and doesn't pay attention to it.

 _So what?_ he thinks again, defiant and even a little smug. He'd kissed his best friend and it was _good_. Definitely the best kiss he'd had in a long time. But it was just a kiss. A mistletoe thing. _So what_?

After he gets himself a beer, he wanders around for a while, forcing himself to socialize with people he barely knows. _Making a good impression_ , Dad would say, and Roman guesses he agrees with that. Someday far in the future, these same people might be working for _him_ , and as much as he likes to just keep himself to himself, it's not a bad idea for them to know he's approachable.

Of course, a lot of them are the same people who mutter _nepotism_ behind his back, but if he'd learned anything from his mother, killing people with kindness - even the assholes - can really nip that crap in the bud. Not always. Assholes are gonna asshole. But the people whose bad opinions of him just come from them not knowing him, at least, he can probably get through to.

He does care a lot about this company, and it matters to him that people are having fun.

Most people seem to be, and he's glad.

Every now and again, he glances across the room to try to pick out the blue shirt from the crowd. He finds Dean standing alone on the edge of the dance floor with a beer in hand. A couple times, he catches Dean looking at him, and smiles. Dean always looks away without smiling back.

It's weird.

Roman turns away from one conversation to find Antonio and Nattie standing with Dean, the three of them watching a bunch of people having an impromptu limbo competition. Somebody had taken down one of the pieces of silver garland to use as the limbo pole. Right about then, somebody falls on their ass, and all three of Roman's friends join the rest of the crowd laughing.

His meandering path takes him back up to the front table, where his mom's sitting with a glass of wine. Dad's off bullshitting with some of the executives by the bar.

Like the good son he is, Roman slides down into the seat beside his mom. "It's a shame Dad left such a beautiful lady all alone," he says. "Having fun?"

She turns a gentle smile on him. "I suppose."

"How come you're not on the dance floor?"

"I was never much of a dancer," she says.

"So you're the one I got that from."

"You have moves." Her eyes narrow. "I saw you using them. Quite a dancer."

Roman coughs. "I wouldn't call that dancing, Mama. I was just trying not to step on his feet."

"It looked good to me," she says, thoughtful. She sips her wine and leans in her chair with it. "Now I see why you haven't wanted to go out with anyone I've tried to set you up with. I suppose it's not a surprise. You can't help who you love, and you boys have always been so close. As long as you're happy, I guess that's all that matters. Under all his silliness, he's a good man. I just wish you would've told me."

Lost, Roman turns to look at her more fully. "What are you talking about?"

Mom finishes her wine in a gulp, sighs. "You and Dean."

"What about us?"

"Your little coming out party just now?"

It's a good thing she waited until he finished swallowing his beer, because otherwise it would've ended up all over her when he sputtered it out. As it is, he chokes on his saliva. "My _what_?"

She either doesn't hear him, or chooses to ignore him. "I saw your cousins about to become fathers, and I really wanted that for you, too. I don't think it's such a bad thing to want, but I forget sometimes that you're a grown man now. You're not my little boy anymore. You're an adult with your own life, and you have to decide what's best for you. Like I said, you can't really help who you love, and your father and I would much rather see you be with somebody who makes you happy than see you trying to force yourself into something you don't really want. I just don't know why you felt the need to hide it from us."

This is like trying to navigate through an unfamiliar forest with a blindfold. Roman turns and takes his mother's hands. "Mom, I'm sorry, I really don't know what you're talking about. What am I hiding from you?"

"That you and Dean are together," she says.

"What?" Roman laughs in stunned disbelief. "Mom. Not you, too. We're not together. It's not like that with us, and it never has been. You know better. What-? Why would you even think that?"

"Because you just kissed him in front of the whole party," Mom says like it's completely obvious.

"Under the mistletoe," he says, shaking his head. That needs to be said. "I know we got a little carried away, but I promise you it was just a kiss. We're not together. It's not like that at all. It was the booze and the mistletoe. That's all. I'm not even gay."

He isn't, either, but there's a part of him down way deep that wonders about it all.

 _You can't help who you love_.

His mom sets her empty glass down and sighs again. "If you're really not gay, baby, then you need to be more careful about doing things like that with him in public. A lot of people saw it. You can blame it on the alcohol and the mistletoe, but they'll still think what they want to think. I know you don't care about that, but Alicia said to me right after that, 'I didn't know he had a boyfriend.' She's off with Tom Phillips now. They seem to have struck it off. You missed an opportunity there. She was waiting for you. That's not a good thing."

"I really didn't want to date her anyway, Mom," Roman says, finishing off his beer. He twists around to look at the dance floor again, and spots Dean bouncing around again with Jimmy and Naomi. About fifteen feet away from them, Alicia's dancing with some tall, skinny dude with a buzz-cut. "She's pretty and I know you and Dad say she's nice, but I don't want you setting me up with anybody. I want to find them myself. I hate being forced into things. That's why I always tell you no."

"But you _are_ going to try to find someone," she presses.

"When I'm ready," he says again. "Is it really that hard to believe I'm happy with how things are right now? Work's good. Dean's doing great. Everything is good. I'm not in a big hurry to shake it all up. I got time. When I am ready, I will. But for right now, I'm happy. Really. Everything is..." He pauses to watch Dean try to twerk again, and can't help a laugh. "Everything is great."

"If you say so, baby," Mom says. She doesn't sound like she believes him. "Well, in any case, I think I need to go rescue your father. He's giving me that look. Try not to drink too much. Come see us before you boys leave. We have a gift for you."

"All right," Roman says, his attention focused on that blue shirt and red Santa hat bobbing across the floor.

* * *

_vii. overheard_

The thing about leaving the company Christmas party is it takes forever.

Dragging Dean away from the dance floor is a chore because he's having so much fun goofing around. Roman has to physically wrap an arm around Dean's sweaty-ass shoulders and lead him away.

There are dozens of people to say goodbye to, and of course everybody wants to give them gambling advice or slip them money to place on a bet. Thrill of _just in case_. Roman's mom hugs them both fiercely, and then leads Dean away to talk to him while Roman's dad decides now is the right time for a half-drunken lecture about behaving in Vegas. Meanwhile, once Mom's finished with Dean, he goes to talk to Antonio and Natalya, and the three of them have a pretty intense-looking conversation.

Nattie hugs Dean tight afterward, and Antonio wraps arms around them both. That's strange: Dean is the least touchy-feely guy Roman's ever met. He only ever accepts hugs from Roman's mom or Roman himself. Roman puts a pin in it to ask about later.

He finally breaks away from his parents and heads over to say goodbye to his friends himself. They don't hug him like they did Dean. Nattie brushes a kiss across his cheek, and Antonio shakes his hand, and they all wish each other happy vacations and happy holidays.

It's a little odd, but the whole way home, Dean's himself, bopping along to the music on the radio and providing commentary on the quality of the Christmas decorations on the houses they pass. He's totally sober, animated and smiling enough to make his dimples pop. Roman wishes there was some mistletoe in the cab so he could kiss him again.

There's not, though, so Roman has to settle for smiling ba ck and adding his own commentary to the fray.

He tries to push that thought away, anyway, because it's probably not a good idea. He's not sure why even wants to in the first place.

Weird. Must just be the night.

They're already packed - Roman had insisted they get that done _before_ the party so they wouldn't be scrambling to do it drunk afterward - so while Dean heads off to grab a quick shower, Roman strips down for bed. He pulls Seth's stupid gifts out of his pocket and flops them down onto the nightstand.

 _Gay Sex for Beginners_ stares up at him from the top of the stack with its picture of two half-naked dudes kissing. He rolls his eyes at it, making a mental note to talk to Dean about thinking up some good revenge plan. It seems a little funny to him now, even if he's just a little tired of people assuming he and Dean are a thing.

Even his own _mother_ , for God's sake.

To distract himself from that line of thinking, Roman hops into bed and grabs his phone to check Twitter, see if anybody's posted anything about the party. Usually his cousins are good for stuff like that. They're both social media addicts, unlike him.

But before he can even get to Twitter, he discovers he's got two text messages from Jey.

The first says, _Thought u might 2 c this. not tweeting it. ;)_

The second is a video, and Roman's pretty sure he knows what it is before he even hits play, but he taps play anyway and turns his phone to full-screen it. Sure enough, it's a video of himself and Dean dancing under the mistletoe. It'd been taken from far away, so it's a little grainy, but Roman recognizes Dean's blue shirt and his own suit coat well enough. In the video, Dean's resting his cheek on Roman's shoulder, and Roman's got Dean pulled in close. They look good.

When the music stops, there's that weird moment where they just look at each other. Then the kiss. Both of them leaning into it. It's weird seeing himself kiss, and weird heat prickles the back of his neck as he watches. He's a little glad the video's too far away for him to really tell if he looks dumb or not. He's into it. So is Dean. Dean slips a hand down to grab Roman's ass at some point. Roman doesn't remember that part.

It ends with them pressing their foreheads together in way that looks really intimate, and... _oh_.

 _Oh_.

Well, yeah, Roman guesses he can see why people might have mistaken that for something else.

( _You can't help who you love_.)

It was just the mistletoe, but yeah, he probably does need to be more careful about doing that in public.

Dean walks in a couple minutes later, dressed in a plain white tee shirt and gray boxers, his dirty clothes and phone in hand. Like the slob he is, he dumps the clothes right onto the floor. "Jey sent us a video. You see that?"

Roman bites back a complaint about to clothes. He'll throw them in the hamper tomorrow. "Yeah," he says instead. "Just did."

"We look pretty good." Dean climbs onto his side of the bed, tunneling under the sheets. He cards fingers through damp, uncombed hair to get it off his forehead, and smiles again. Maybe it's just the dim light, but it looks different, softer. "We always look good, don't we?"

"...yeah," Roman says, trying to ignore that weird flip-flop inside. "Yeah, man. We always look good."

He'd left that confiscated sprig of Dean's belt mistletoe on the nightstand earlier, and he shouldn't, but he grabs it anyway. They're in private, at least, so it won't matter, but he just - he really wants to kiss Dean again. It's nuts. He's never wanted to before, but he does now. Doesn't know why, and doesn't want to question it too much, but he just wants to. One more time. Just tonight. Just because.

So he does, holding the mistletoe over them again.

Dean's forehead furrows. "What are you...?"

Roman leans over him to kiss the question away. Dean doesn't react at first, mouth staying firm and immobile, but eventually he relaxes and kisses Roman back. It's slower this time, a little easier, closed mouths and Roman dropping the mistletoe to settle that hand on Dean's chest. He can feel Dean's heart pounding there, light and quick, steady.

As he had at the party, Dean opens his mouth to let Roman's tongue in, and things deepen from there, Roman curling his fingers into the fabric of Dean's shirt, and Dean reaching around to cup the back of Roman's head. They're at a weird angle, Roman kind of on his side and sort of laying over Dean, while Dean's flat on his back, and things get a little sloppy and misaligned from time to time - they bump noses once and snicker - but it doesn't matter. Roman's head is spinning again, half-drunk and half-Dean, and it's all right.

Dean kisses back in the same self-assured way he had before, like he knows exactly what he's doing.

It already feels familiar.

He makes those bitten-off noises and choked little groans and Roman spends time chasing them, teasing them out, hand sliding up to rest on Dean's jaw. He _likes_ that.

They kiss until Roman's lips feel swollen and sore, until he's out of breath and warm all over. He's not thinking about anything beyond that, the kissing, because that's not what he wants. He'd just wanted to kiss Dean again, and when he's had his fill, he draws away.

In the low light, Dean looks pretty damn well-kissed, lips swollen and his face as red as his Santa hat had been, breathing as hard as Roman. When he opens his eyes, they're dark, mostly pupil. The hand that he uses to wipe his chin floats up there. Roman wipes his own, and turns to flick the mistletoe back onto the nightstand.

Dean pushes himself up to an elbow. "'S that for?"

"Mistletoe," Roman says again. "Wanted one without the audience. You know?"

"...oh," Dean says. He flips the covers back and hops out of bed, hands over his lower stomach and his groin.

"What's the matter?" Roman asks, concern overriding the warmth.

"Stomachache," Dean says, and he walks hunched over to the bathroom, covering himself the whole way. "I gotta...go. Sorry. I'll be right back."

"All right," Roman says.

Must be a bad stomachache, because he swears he hears Dean groan a little through the closed bathroom door.

And when Dean comes out a minute later, he's still flushed.

"You all right?" Roman asks through a yawn.

"Yeah," Dean says, but when he crawls back into bed, he keeps a little space between them.

Roman's too tired to worry about it now, so he just closes his eyes and lets himself drift to sleep to the sound of his best friend breathing beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter where there's some definite changes: I cut out the stuff with Roman asking Alicia for a date because once I changed the tone of the kiss to 'it was just the mistletoe' and Roman really not freaking out about it that much, it wasn't necessary. Plus, I never really liked that plot device. To me, it works better as Roman's mom pointing it out as an opportunity he missed because he's too focused on his friend. 
> 
> End of the day, I really want the story to just focus on Roman and Dean's relationship without any external plot-things hanging over their heads. This just a story of two guys trying to figure it out. And that's all I want it to be.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Drop me a line and let me know what you think. Good/bad? Hate it? Like it? Thanks so much!


	3. The Fountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everybody for reading and the great feedback. Glad y'all are enjoying this. Here's more. First day in Vegas. Do mind the tags.

**Spin**

**III. The Fountain  
** _i. vegas_

"You think it's possible to eat in your sleep?" Dean asks, apropos of absolutely nothing.

They're in a cab on the way to their Fremont Street hotel, after a long but uneventful flight from Florida.

Las Vegas folds into view, impossibly tall with its unmistakable hotels and lights that are bright even in the daytime. There's crowds of people walking across the catwalks over the streetlights. People down below - shopping crowds rubbing elbows with young partiers and the dudes trying to pass out those escort cards. Billboards advertising everything are everywhere, from the cabs to the sides of busses to big signs between buildings. About every other building has the word CASINO flashing on it.

Clear blue sky peeks through every now and again, and the midday sun shines down on all of it.

Roman, busy staring out his own window, finally registers that Dean's broken his daylong silence. "I don't think so," he says. "Why?"

"'Cuz I'm starving," Dean answers, rubbing his eyes under his shades, "but I don't wanna actually have to leave bed to go eat anything."

Roman nods in agreement. "Heard that. Guess we'll have to get room service if we ever get to the hotel."

"Yeah, but that means ya gotta stay awake for it." Dean shakes his head, and rubs at his eyes under his shades. "That's lame. Rather have somebody feed me while I'm unconscious."

"How would that work?" Roman wonders aloud. "Shove the food up your butt, or what?"

"What?" Dean snorts. "I dunno where you're from, dude, but on this planet, we eat food with our mouths. You should probably practice that 'cuz it might get little awkward if we're out at a restaurant and you try to cram food up your ass."

"Funny." The driver chuckles, but Roman's too caught up in watching some lady dressed in all tiger-print everything walking around outside to do much more than smile a little. "I'm just saying if I tried to feed you in your mouth, you'd probably choke on it."

"I'm gettin' pretty good about gettin' meat down my throat without chokin' on it," Dean deadpans back at him. "Lotsa practice."

Sometimes Roman just walk right into it.

He palms his eyes, doing his level best not to notice the driver laughing even harder. "Dean, Jesus Christ."

Predictably, and because he's an asshole like that, Dean just laughs himself.

The back of Roman's neck heats up.

It's still better than the weird silence that had followed them all the way from Florida.

To say Dean's not a morning person is an understatement, but for him not to say anything at all in over six hours is a little strange. He'd been pulled in on himself in the car on the way to the airport, and had gone straight to sleep on the plane. So had Roman, for that matter and he'd woken up just before they descended into Vegas with Dean a heavy slumbering weight on his shoulder.

That was fine.

Dean had been so out-of-it he'd barely even glanced at all the slot machines and video poker machines and other Las Vegas trappins they'd passed on their way through airport. He'd just shuffled behind Roman, eyes hidden behind his shades and his shoulders all slumped.

Seems better now.

Their hotel is one of the nicer ones on Fremont street. Roman had suggested one on the Strip, since all the shows they're going to see are there, but Dean shitcanned that idea as too expensive and "too fuckin' touristy for me." That, and apparently the gambling on Fremont is better, anyway. So they'd compromised on this big hotel, which had recently had a big tower added onto it, a new indoor pool installed, and their casino redone.

Stepping into the lobby feels like stepping into any other hotel. There's no outward signs of Vegas there, no slot machines or anything like that, other than one plaque on the wall that points to the way to the casino. The lobby itself is sleek mellow wood, stainless steel, glass, and black accents. Quiet. The lobby desk is deep at the back, a long, wide area that's set up handle a dozen people or more checking in at once. Fast and efficient. Roman remembers that from his last stay in Vegas.

There aren't many people around yet - it's early - but the clerk says they're fine to check in, since both rooms are ready.

The two rooms: while they'll invariably wind up sleeping together in one room, Dean suggested a second room just in case one of them needed a place to bring somebody back to. It makes sense, Roman guesses, because he's not thrilled at the idea of getting kicked out of the room whenever Dean wants to get his freak on.

" _Get us a boom-boom room," Dean had said when they were looking at rooms online. "We need a boom-boom room."_

" _We're not calling it a boom-boom room," Roman said. That was just stupid._

" _We're calling it a boom-boom room," Dean had replied in that way he always did when he knew he was going to get his way. "'Cuz it's a boom-boom room._ "

So the clerk hands Roman one set of key cards, and hands Dean the set for the boom-boom room, along with directions to the elevators they needed to take up to the tower.

The rooms are side-by-side, is at least convenient, although Roman experiences a moment or two of doubt at the thought of being right next door when Dean's getting laid. That's not the best idea he's ever heard, but at least there will be a wall between them. And he brought headphones.

_It'll be fine_ , he assures himself.

Nice rooms: single king bed to the left, big flat-screen TV on the wall across from it, long dresser, a recliner, and a big closet. Stocked mini-fridge, too, but Roman knows better than to touch that shit. It's expensive.

While Dean heads off to use the toilet, Roman throws his suitcase on the bed and unzips it, meaning to at least unpack his shoes and his toiletries before he does anything else.

The first thing he sees when he flips the case open, sitting right on top of his pile of underwear is _Gay Sex for Beginners_. Seth's dumb-ass present, with its two muscular dudes making out on the cover.

Roman picks it up, frowning.

He didn't pack this.

He knows he didn't pack this because he'd packed everything except his toiletries last night, and this hadn't been in there this morning.

Dean must have put it in there, the jackass.

The look on said jackass's face when he comes out of the bathroom and finds Roman still holding the book gives him away. He smiles. Because he's a jackass. "What are you doing with that?"

"You tell me," Roman says. "Why is it in my bag?"

"Oh, uh. Shit." Dean scratches the back of his head. "Like, I think I picked it up look at it or something and it must've fallen into your suitcase. Something. I dunno. It wasn an accident. Totally."

"Accident my ass," Roman gruffs at him, mock-annoyed. It's really not a big deal. "'M I gonna have to kick your butt, too?"

"I feel like I need to point out that Seth's the one who got that book for you, so if you're gonna kick anybody's butt, it's Seth's. Not Dean. Dean didn't do anything wrong except kinda sorta maybe-accidentally drop the book into your suitcase. Seth is the bad guy. Seeeeth. Dean's the innocent bystander here."

"Dean needs to shut his damn mouth before Roman shuts it for him," Roman says, exasperated. He takes the book over to the nightstand and dumps it in with the Bible. At least it'll have company. "Order us some food, would ya?"

"Why me?"

"Because you're close to the phone."

Dean huffs like a spoiled kid being told go to bed. "The things I do for you, Reigns. Jesus Christ."

"I'm paying for the food," Roman points out, wandering over to his suitcase to finally start unpacking.

And Dean looks over. "In that case, I'll be happy to order it."

Roman rolls his eyes. "Course you are, cheap-ass. Of course you are."

* * *

_ii. the gambler_

When Roman wakes later from his nap, he's alone with a mouth that feels like it's dry as the desert outside and a vague ache in his sinus. Probably from the shift in climate. Florida is much more humid. Out here it really feels dry.

Also, there's something stuck to his face.

He knows what it is before he even opens his eyes: a note, probably stuck on with tape, because God forbid Dean just leave a note on the dresser or taped to the TV or somewhere a normal person would. He always has to make sure it's stuck on Roman's face somewhere. On the plus side, it's an actual note that will peel off rather than the Sharpie he used exactly one time, but on the downside, the tape's usually stuck on somewhere with hair. Hurts to peel it off.

This time it's Roman's eyebrow.

One of these days Roman is going to tape Dean's buttcheeks together.

Roman's seen Dean's butt enough in accidental glimpses through the shower curtain and when Dean's dressing that he knows Dean's not real hairy back there, but there's enough it wouldn't feel great to have to unstick tape from there. Plus, it was just be funny as hell.

But speaking of Dean:

Roman peels the note off of his forehead and blinks bleary eyes at it. Just says, "At casino. -D" in Dean's near-illegible scrawl.

The pieces assemble themselves in Roman's head: Dean in a casino. Dean _alone_ in a casino.

_Oh boy_.

Awake now, Roman hauls his ass off the bed and hurries into the bathroom to pee and deal with his hair. Part of it had fallen out of the bun, leaving loose strands of black to get all sleep-matted and fly everywhere. He's got a nice bright seam from the pillowcase on his face, too, a bright red line that runs from his temple to his jaw. Cold water rinses the cotton out of his mouth, but it doesn't do much about that line.

It doesn't matter.

He's pretty sure he breaks the land speed record for getting to the elevator and getting down to the casino floor. It's a good thing he doesn't really see anybody because he'd probably have mowed them down.

Once he's finally in the casino, he pauses long enough look around. It's pretty typical of these hotel casinos: relatively dim lights overhead and old-looking carpet on the floor. Off to the right, long rows of noisy slot machines eating the money that people feed into them. There's a long bar along the back of the casino, behind the slot machines, where probably a dozen people are hunched over video poker machines. Cocktail waitresses carrying drink trays flit in between all the machines, offering those complementary drinks to keep the gamblers rolling.

To his left, off past the mostly-empty blackjack tables, he hears a sudden explosion of laughter and cheering.

Autopilot directs him that way because he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that's where he'll find Dean.

He just knows.

Just past the blackjack and poker tables are the Craps tables.

There's one table with probably ten people standing around it, all laughing about something, and in the middle of all of it is Dean. He's up at the line with a wrinkled little old lady, hand out for her to blow on the dice in his hand. He's wearing a ridiculous white cowboy hat, a gray leather jacket, his ripped jeans, and bright smile.

"C'mon, baby!" he says, and throws the dice across the table.

The dealer, an amused-looking lady in her mid-thirties, calls, " _Four_!"

Everyone erupts in cheers like they've won the lottery, and Dean turns to high-five the little old lady and an old dude whom Roman assumes is her husband.

Dean's dimples are popping again, and Roman's smiling well before he even makes it over to the table himself. It's like a reflex at this point.

As soon as Roman reaches the table, Dean lights right up, that grin turning up to eleven. "It's alive. Thought you were gonna sleep all week."

"I could have," Roman admits. "Looks like you got the party started without me."

"Up thirty bucks so far," Dean says, pointing to his stack of chips like a proud kid showing off a sand castle. "Wanna get in on this? We got time, and I got more 'n I need." Saying this, he stuffs a hand into his jacket's pocket and retrieves a haphazard stack of chips in all colors. He thrusts them out Roman's way. "Here. Me 'n June 'n Len here, we're on a hot streak. Whole table's on a streak now. Jump in."

The little old lady, whose fluffy white hair reminds Roman a little of a Q-tip, smiles happily at Roman. "Get in on this, honey. He's our good luck charm."

"Darn right I am," Dean says, tipping the hat at her like some old timey cowboy. "Hop in, Rome. Spot down at the end of the table."

"I'm in," Roman says, smiling back at the old lady. "Wouldn't want to deprive you of your good luck charm."

He takes the open spot beside a younger couple, nodding a greeting. They nod back. Seem friendly enough.

It's been roughly half a decade since he played Craps last, but he was never more than a Pass Line bettor anyway, so he sets a couple red chips down beside everyone else's, and then leans back to watch Dean shoot. Dean has the old lady - May - blow on the dice again, and yet again Dean rolls a four, much to the table's delight.

A cocktail waitress swings around to see if anyone wants a drink, and Roman, spotting Dean's beer, gets one for himself. He settles into the flow of things pretty quick. Craps is one of those games where things move along at a relatively brisk pace. Nobody at the table is playing for very high stakes, from the looks of things, but they really do act like they've won some sweepstakes prize anytime the dice roll goes their way.

Dean's right in the middle of it, cracking jokes with his new pals like they're old friends, doing some exaggerated Southern accent to entertain everybody, and laughing his ass off at any little thing. It's like night and day to the guy who'd coldly brushed Roman off a few hours ago. He's all warm eyes - which Roman can now _see_ , what with the lack of shades - and easy smiles, and it's hard to resist him when he's like this.

They stay long enough for a couple beers and for them both to win a small amount of money. The young couple beside Roman strikes up a conversation with him about where they're from and what they do, and it's not all that interesting, but he starts to relax into it anyway. It finally sinks in that he's on vacation. No pressure. No job to worry about. No well-meaning mothers hovering over his shoulder. No pushy friends.

It's just him and Dean in a city full of possibilities.

Four days of freedom.

Billy Idol concert tonight. A free night tomorrow. A comedy show the night after. The Chili Peppers the night after that.

Doesn't get much better than that.

For the first time in what feels like a _year_ , he takes a breath and lets it go.

Weight seems to just slides off his shoulders, and he smiles at Dean again across the table.

Everything feels right.

People start drifting away from the table right about the time Roman's stomach rumbles for more food.

Dean plunks the cowboy hat back on Len's head when the old guy mentions he and his wife have a dinner to get to. "Yeah," he tells them. "We do, too. We got a show we gotta get to here in a couple hours, but I can hear Roman's stomach from all the way over here. So we gotta go eat, first."

"You better go feed him then," May tells him, all serious. She gives Roman an appraising look. "A strapping boy like him, you need to keep him fed."

"That's right," Roman says. "I bought lunch, so you're getting dinner, moneybags."

Between them, they'd won about forty bucks, which Dean cashes out and uses to buy their way into the buffet that's just down the hall from the casino. He doesn't even complain about it for once.

What he does do instead is spend about as much time playing with his food as he does eating it. Roman's had better buffets, for sure, but the food's edible. Damn crime for somebody to just play with it it. Dean mounds his mashed potatoes into a butt, boobs (with beef nipples), and balls (with a chicken drumstick dick). Stuffing becomes a fort for his green beans. His straw wrapper becomes a projectile that he shoots at Roman's head.

"You're worse than a damn little kid," Roman grumbles, batting the little wad of paper way.

"You like it." Dean sticks his tongue out.

Roman feints like he's going to grab it. "No I don't."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Yeah, you do. You do times infinity. No takebacks."

It's at that point Roman loses the battle against the laughter that wants to bubble out. He kicks Dean under the table, just hard enough to get his attention. "Dumbass."

Laughing himself, Dean kicks Roman right back. "Dickhead."

"Jackass."

"You can't just call me words that end with 'ass', buttface" Dean informs Roman. "I win."

"That's a stupid rule, jerkass," Roman snickers into his pie. "Because you're an ass and it all fits."

"Yeah, you're just a sore loser, ya Grinch-ass."

"Hey!" Roman points across the table. "You just called me something that ended in ass."

"The rule only applies to you."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Ambrose. Rules can't just apply to one person."

Dean's all bright eyes and a big, dimpled grin when he stuffs an enormous mouthful of sticky mashed potatoes into his mouth. "Can too," he says through them.

Wrinkling his nose in mock-disgust, Roman leans away from the table. "Man, I can't take you anywhere. And no, they can't."

"Uh-huh."

"No. They gotta apply to both of us."

"Nuh-uh."

"They do too. Otherwise it's - man, shut the hell up." Exasperated and too amused for his own good, Roman throws his fork down. "Just shut your damn mouth. Finish your food."

He's expecting it when Dean sticks his tongue out again, all coated in nasty white potatoes. Because that's Dean all over.

Under the table, Roman kicks him, and he laughs when Dean kicks him right back.

Suddenly, Roman has the weirdest urge to kiss him again, mashed potatoes and all.

It doesn't make a damn bit of sense. There's no mistletoe anywhere.

He puts it out of mind, and tries not to think about it.

* * *

_iii. more more more_

They catch a cab over to the House of Blues, and slam back beers while they enjoy the show.

Roman's never been the biggest Billy Idol fan, but the guy has great energy, the music is familiar enough, and the - relatively small - crowd gets into it. Dean's into it, shouting the lyrics he knows along with the rest of the people around him. Whatever lyrics he doesn't know, he just makes up, and either nobody notices or they're too busy throwing their fists in the air to give a damn.

Roman sings what lyrics he knows at a lower volume - singing is not his forte, and, unlike Dean, he's a little self-conscious about being off-key - and spends the entire concert on his feet, jamming out with everybody else. The crowd is raucous, but not assholes. Everybody pretty much stays in their spaces and just has fun. It's probably the most polite rocking-out crowd Roman's ever seen.

Of course, there are a lot of gray heads in the audience.

Stands to reason, since Billy Idol's in his early sixties himself.

But _for_ a dude who's in his early sixties, Idol can go.

And at some point during one of the songs Roman actually knows, he catches Dean's eye and they both start singing together like they have dozens of times at dozens of concerts before. Back in Roman's college days, Dean was all about getting out there and seeing as much live music as he could, and he'd often drag Roman along with him, to shows in scuzzy little clubs where there people were crammed shoulder to shoulder and then again to shows in bigger venues where Roman had heard of the artist playing.

With Roman's job and Dean's being such time-sinks for the both these days, they haven't been to a concert in over a year.

Jamming out to "Rebel Yell" with a whole crowd of people just feels like breath of fresh air.

Eight, nine beers go down like water, and by the time the show's done, Roman's got a buzz on. He'd sweated a lot of it out, but he's feels good.

On the way out of the House of Blues, he slings an arm around Dean's shoulder. "Hell of a show, huh?"

" _Fuck_ yeah!" Dean says, nearly sloshing his beer on himself. His hair's all stuck to his forehead in sweaty tangles, and he's bouncing in Roman's grip like an overcaffeinated rubber ball. Or something like that. "Fuckin' _love_ 'Rebel Yell.' More! More! More!"

It's probably because of the concert, but everything sounds a little underwater to Roman - their footsteps, Dean's voice, the people around shuffling on their way. There's a ringing under it. He ignores it the same way he ignores people looking around at them. He's used to it by now.

"Hey, wasn't 'White Wedding' what you sang at karaoke that time? Nattie's party or whatever that was?"

"Oh, yeah!" Dean slips free of Roman's arm and does this silly shimmy with his shoulders. He almost hits a young couple weaving down the sidewalk, but they don't seem to notice it any more than Dean does.

"Dipshit," Roman says anyway, alcohol-fuzzy and fond as hell. "Let's go see the fountains at the Bellagio."

"That's so fuckin' tourist," Dean grumbles.

"I don't care. You've never seen it. We're doing it."

"Fuckin' tourist."

"Shut up."

They're a few blocks away still yet, but it's a nice night and Roman doesn't care.

As he watches Dean bop along to music only he can hear, Roman thinks, _I could do this for the rest of my life._

Without even meaning to, he pictures himself and Dean as a couple old guys doing this, Dean wearing some old ridiculous fedora on his bald-ass head and waving a cane like a sword or something (because he would), and Roman himself shuffling behind a walker, laughing. Because he would.

( _You and the wife_.)

"What's so funny?" Dean demands suddenly, the words jarring Roman back to the here and now.

"Nothing, babe," Roman says, looking on ahead. "Glad you enjoyed the show."

There's a bit of pause. Dean clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I did. Totally. Hope I can be that, like bad-ass when I'm in my sixties."

Roman chuckles again and follows the crowd across the intersection. It's nighttime, but the light pouring in from everywhere makes it seem like noon with the sun high overhead. "I'm sure you will be."

"Both will, I bet."

"You know it." Roman slips his arm around Dean's shoulders again. "You know it."

"'Course I do."

There's signs of the holidays everywhere along the Strip. They pass hotels decked out in Christmas wreaths and candy canes. Some of the ads Roman sees are for ladies - and dudes - dressed as 'naughty elves.' The lights are bright as the daylight, but they seem to have more red and green in them than Roman remembers. 'Tis the season and all - although you wouldn't know it on a dry, slightly chilly night.

Roman had once expressed a desire for a snowy Christmas, and Dean had just looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

Being from Ohio, Dean had had his share of snowy Christmases growing up. "Ain't nothin' _fun_ about it bein' two degrees out with a foot of fuckin' snow you gotta move outta the way just to get anywhere," he'd answered. "You're not missing anything, Rome. Trust me."

Of course, before he moved to Florida, Dean really didn't have much of an idea what celebrating Christmas was supposed to be like. His mom had a lot of problems, and let him down in a lot of ways. Nothing made Roman sadder as a teenager than hearing his friend Dean had spent Christmas that year alone in his apartment, no tree, no dinner, no gifts, his mom passed out in the bedroom.

The worst part was Dean said it like that was normal.

Since then, Roman's made it his life's mission to make sure Dean has has somewhere to go to celebrate the holidays. All he had to do was mention it to his mom. She looked sad herself that day, and told Roman there was always room for one more at the table. The Reigns family was one of the wealthiest in Florida. They always had a lot more than they needed.

The next year, it felt good to look over and see Dean arguing with one of the little cousins over which Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle was the best.

Every year since then, Dean's presence at holidays has been just as mandatory as Roman's.

That feels good, too.

Roman still wants to experience a snowy Christmas, though

If that means he has to drag his whole family to Alaska, he's gonna do it.

* * *

_iv. carol of the bells_

As he tends to do when he's been drinking, Dean yammers away the entire walk to the Bellagio. Roman only catches every fifth word or so, since he's busy watching where they're going and checking out all the people they pass, but he doubts Dean minds.

When they finally get to the fountains, they find a spot to watch on one of the rails. There there are quite a few people gathered around all three sides. But there's plenty of space. 'Fountains' is kind misleading anyway. The Bellagio has a huge decorative pool-type thing out front of it, and inside that are are dozens and dozens of water jets that kick water up. They're controlled by computers, that program specific jets to turn on at specific times according to the music.

Dean leans over the rail, chin in his hand. He's right next to garland-wrapped pillar. There's nobody within ten feet on Roman's other side. He leans over the rail himself.

And just as he does, white lights flick on over the water and "Carol of the Bells" begins playing over the speakers, a choir's voice echoing down at them. It's cool the way the lights turn on in a circle pattern and begin jetting up, bright white lights making it flash like lightning.

"'S cool," Dean remarks.

People _ooh_ and _ahh_ around them after the water jets up particularly high. Roman settles a hand on Dean's back again, and smiles. "It is."

"Good thing there's no sharks or anything in that water," Dean says then, shifting a little closer. "Be like _Sharknado_. Raining sharks. That'd suck."

Roman looks over, nonplussed. "Why would you even think something like that?"

"I dunno." The lights flicker across Dean's face when he smiles. "It's me. I don't know where half the shit in my head comes from. 'Course, it'd be funny if somebody put like soap in the water or somethin. Have that shit spray foam or somethin. Or - I know! Like have an adult version of the light show where they shape the lights like a giant dick or something. Or boobs. You'd like water boobs. 'Course, that'd probably be harder to do. A dick they could do, like, foamy spray or something. That'd be fucking hilarious."

He's a twelve-year-old kid in a twenty-six year-old's body.

Of course, so is Roman because he laughs at the mental image of water jets shaped like a dick spraying foamy water on people. He shouldn't encourage this kind of thinking, but it's pretty damn funny. "Yeah."

He watches Dean more than he watches the show, in all honesty. It's like he can't help himself. Dean's got this little smile going - the one he gets when he's enjoying himself more than he wants to let on - and he's leaning forward like a kid watching a magic show. Too old for wonder, but still able to enjoy water shooting up high in the air to the tinny sounds of Christmas music.

Dean glances over as the show winds down, questions in his eyes, and Roman just look back, not thinking anything in particular.

Suddenly the air feels thicker between them than it had. Charged.

Roman can't help but notice how little space there is between them.

How easy it would be to just lean over and kiss Dean again, especially after Dean turns so he's facing Roman little more fully. Like he knows what Roman's thinking.

Really, Roman doesn't think. There's no mistletoe over them - just the garland wrapped around the pillar - but that's enough for him. He dips in and touches his lips to Dean's in something like a question. By way of answer, Dean breathes out hard and leans into it.

They straighten, and Roman backs Dean up against the pillar to kiss him breathless while fountain show flickers and flares beside them. Dean lets it happen for a while, but at some point he pushes back, kissing Roman just as thoroughly, his tongue curling into Roman's mouth like it has every right to be there. Maybe it does. His hands seem to think they got a right to be on Roman's ass, that's for sure. Roman doesn't fight it. He thinks he likes it, that push-and-pull.

Likes this, period. A lot. Maybe too much. He could see himself doing it again.

When the music stops and the lights fade and the water goes still, he pulls away. He's careful when he does, slow, trying not to just yank himself away.

Dean's hands fall back to his own sides, and he leans back against the pillar, lower lip caught between his teeth. His eyes are full of questions.

Roman rests a hand on the rail, trying to slow down his heart. He doesn't have the answers.

Neither one of them seems to have a clue what to do now.

* * *

_v. retreat_

In the end, they just get a cab back to hotel.

It's a ride that's tense with everything they're not saying.

Dean looks over every now and again like he wants to talk, but like the brave, brave man he is, Roman keeps his attention out the window. He watches the Strip fade into the distance behind them, and the older lights of Fremont Street appear ahead. There's some part of him that hopes if he ignores this long enough, they can just write it off as no big deal again.

It's not.

So what if he likes kissing Dean?

Friends can do that, can't they? It doesn't have to mean anything.

Back at the hotel, they climb out of the cab in that same silence. It's Roman who breaks it, stretching his arms over his head and says, "Man, I don't know about you, but I'm still jet-lagged as _hell_. I think I just want to hit hit the sack. Especially if we're going hiking tomorrow."

"I was hoping we could grab a drink first," Dean says. "Maybe, uh, talk?"

Roman looks over. "What about?"

Dean snorts. "What do you _think_ , Rome?"

There's a bunch of people headed into the hotel ahead of them, and more behind them, so Roman jerks his head off to one side and veers off to find a quiet place to stand beside the building. There's not much light over here, but it's enough. He leans back against the wall. That nice buzz is starting to fade, and a headache is starting to creep in. "I don't know why, Dean. Is it really that big a deal?"

"I mean, no, but..." Dean frowns off at something to the side. "You've never wanted to before, so it's like isn't that a little strange? Not - I'm not complaining or anything, but don't you think maybe you should - I dunno - try to figure it out? It's not a big deal. But it's just - it's weird."

"Weird?" Roman shifts. "Bad weird?"

"No! It's not bad at all. I dunno. I just don't usually, y'know, kiss people like that unless I'm gonna have sex. So I dunno. I know you're kinda all sex camel right now, but-"

"Wait, _what_?" Roman blurts. Eight years he's known Dean, and there are still times when the guy gives him mental whiplash. "Did you call me a sex camel?"

"Yes?" Dean glances back around. "Yeah. I called you a sex camel."

"Do I even wanna know?"

"It's - like, you know how camels in the desert can go a long time without water? Well, sex camels can go a long time without getting laid. That's you right now. 'Cuz you're like four months since your last lay. Which is a long drought for you, even when you're being a sex camel. But anyway, the thing about sex camels is they don't have humps 'cuz they don't need 'em. They don't hump much."

"I see." The stupid part is that not only does Roman follow Dean's logic, but that it actually makes sense. _Sex camel._ "So what does that make you?"

"I fuck like bunnies," Dean shrugs. "Duh."

"Ah."

"Anyway, gettin' back to my point, I don't usually kiss people like that unless I'm about to get laid. So it's weird. To me. I dunno. You don't... That's not something you, like, wanna do, right?"

"Have-? No. No, Dean. Come on." The idea is ridiculous. Nuts. Roman's never even thought about that before, them having sex. But his insides go flippy just the same. "It's not like that. You know it's not."

"No, I know," Dean says quickly. "I was just - I don't know. I'm just tryin' to figure it out."

"I don't think there's anything _to_ figure out," Roman says. "It was just a kiss. Same with last night. Don't make a big deal out of it. I'm not. It was nice. That's all."

Even buzzed, he can tell Dean wants to say something, but before he spins away, all Dean says is, "Nice. Okay."

"Is it?"

"I mean, it's whatever. You know? Whatever." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "Like, do you think it's 'cuz you haven't gotten laid yourself in a while? Maybe your brain's tryina tell you to go get some or somethin'. Like subconsciously. Maybe you just need to, y'know, break your dry spell."

"Could be," Roman allows. He's heard worse ideas, and in way, he guesses it makes sense, too. Getting out of his head about it sounds especially good. "I think you're overthinking it, man. But you might have a point. I could sure use a nice lay right about now."

Dean looks right at him. "Wouldn't have to look hard to find someone who'd help you with that."

"It's Vegas," Roman says, chuckling. "I bet a lot of people come here looking for that. I'm sure I could find a lady up for some fun, if I wanted."

He might.

He just might. More he thinks about it, the better it sounds. It's been too damn long.

Meanwhile, Dean turns away again. "Right. A lady. You do that." Sounds off, for some reason. Clipped. "There's a bar more my speed up the road. So I'm gonna go. Good luck."

"Hang on," Roman says. "We good?"

"Yep." Dean walks away. "See ya later."

"Stay out of trouble," Roman calls after him. "Call me if you need anything."

"Whatever, _mom_. You're such a mom."

"I just don't want to have bail your ass out of jail at three in the morning - again."

Dean flips Roman the bird over one shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout me. Go dust your dick off."

Roman just shakes his head, and heads inside.

It might be worth it, he thinks again.

_Maybe_.

* * *

_vi. breaking the streak_

Afterward, showered and lying in a quiet room, Roman stares up at the ceiling and tries to decide if it was or not.

He really can't tell.

Her name was Maria.

Carmel skin. Full lips. Thick dark hair and dark eyes. Not too tall. Jeans and black leather jacket. He'd been sitting at the bar for all of maybe ten minutes when she wandered over. He bought her a drink. She introduced herself as a vet tech from Chicago, and explained that her friends were out partying on the Strip but she'd stayed behind in the hopes of having some fun on her own. The way she'd leaned close he could smell her light, floral perfume made it pretty clear she was interested.

So was he. She had a nice laugh. He got to hear it when they started comparing notes about their friends, and he told her about the time he found Dean wedged onto the top of the refrigerator when a big spider got loose in the house. She made him laugh when she told him about a friend of hers who managed to drive her brand new Lexus into a house.

He was rusty on his flirting and awkward with the small-talk, but she didn't seem to mind.

She called him handsome, and, after he bought her a second drink, laid a bold hand on his forearm and asked him if he had a room. Her room, she explained, was open, but she didn't know when her friends were coming back. He understood fine, and offered to take her back to his.

It was about as no-strings and no-frills as it got.

Up his room, she was playful and flirty, teasing her blouse off and then stepping in so he could kiss her. It felt strange, and he wasn't sure why. Shouldn't have been. She was soft and curvy in all the ways he really liked, and melted right into him, but he couldn't bring himself to kiss her a second time. Fortunately, she had other ideas, anyway, deciding to down on him unprompted, right there at the foot of the bed.

The only time he actually thought about Dean at all that hour was just a quick, fleeting thing in between the time she unzipped his jeans and the time she freed his dick and started massging it: _Wonder what it would look like if Dean was doing this_? It was thought that was there and gone so fast that he didn't have time to even worry about it, because Maria, it turned out, was actually really good at giving head. Conscious thought and worry and everything flew right out of his damn head, and everything just sort of tuned down to that place it went when he was about to get laid.

And it was fine.

He didn't think about anything but what was happening.

She went down on him, he went down on her and let her ride his mouth until she got off twice, and then she rolled a condom on him and rode him until he got off. Feeling himself slide right into her, that was the best part. Nothing like it. He really wanted to flip them over and take the reigns, pick up the pace, go harder. She didn't seem to want that, keeping everything slow and easy, and, "I got you, baby. Lemme take care of you." When he came, it was with his hands light on her waist and his eyes squeezed shut. Not the most mind-blowing orgasm ever, but not bad at all. Better than it would have been on his own, probably.

It left him out of breath and with just a light sheen of sweat greasing his skin, loose and lazy.

When she tried to kiss him again, though, he turned away so she kissed his cheek instead. It made him feel like an asshole. He wrapped an arm around her instead and kissed the top of her head.

She didn't stay long, claiming she needed to go make sure her friends got back to the hotel all right. He pried himself off the bed and threw on some shorts to at least see her to the door. That earned him a real smile and another kiss on the cheek. She seemed happy enough, and that helped.

And it was fine.

He'd taken a quick shower and flipped all the pillows around on the bed so the ones with perfume on them were at the back. There was a little wet spot on the comforter he wiped away with a damp rag. And only when everything was back in order did he lay back down.

The TV's on, _SportsCenter_ highlights flickering colors at the wall, and his dry spell is over.

Aside from being a little tired and more relaxed, he doesn't really feel any different for it.

Doesn't regret it anymore than he regrets the last hook-up he had four months ago.

So he guesses it was worth it.

He tucks his hands behind his head, and finds himself wondering where Dean was. What - who - he was doing right about now.

It's like the thought is a summons, because Roman no sooner has it than Dean lets himself into the room. He goes straight into the bathroom and closes the door without even poking his head around the corner to say hey. He hears Dean pissing, and then shower kicks on. Sure sign as any Dean got laid, too, since the only time he ever showers after he gets home is after he's had sex. They both do it. Just wiping down with a rag after sex doesn't feel like enough.

Dean's not in the shower long. Roman tucks his hands behind his head, staring at the TV without really seeing it, and watches Dean pad out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. He'd at least carried his clothes out with him.

And he's got hickies, Roman notices with a frown. Quite a few: three on the side of his neck, right under the angle of his jaw, and several more along his collarbones. One above his nipple, just visible through the hair. He looks about as wiped out as Roman feels, tired blue eyes meeting Roman's as he heads over to dump his stuff beside the chair. "Hey."

"'S up, man," Roman says, yawning. It's just after midnight.

"Got yourself some, huh?" Dean says. His suitcase is already on the chair, and opened. He drops his towel onto the floor and digs through it, bare-assed.

"Yeah," Roman says. He tries not to look.

He looks.

Back when they first met in high school, Dean was scrawny, pipe cleaner arms and legs. Narrow chest and narrow waist. These days, he's filled out some. Broad shoulders and big thighs. Waist is still narrow, though. Kind of shaped like a Dorito. Lucky bastard. Unlike Roman, who gains weight just looking at food, Dean can't seem to put weight on without eating about a cow a day. Doubly lucky bastard.

Definitely looks good, that's for sure.

Except for the hickey on his asscheek.

Roman notices it when Dean tugs up a pair of black underwear. "How the hell do you get a hickey on your ass?"

Eyebrows raised, Dean looks around. "Same way you get hickeys anywhere."

"You let a dude bite your ass?"

"Yes." Dean snags a white tee shirt off his pile and tugs it on. It covers all but the three hickeys on the side of his neck. "He wanted to rim me before I fucked him. Kind of a bitey little shit, but whatever. I'm into it. How was your night?"

Too much information. It takes Roman a couple tries to get out, "I didn't need to know that. But it was fine."

"You asked." Dean wanders over to turn off the desk lamp before he crawls into bed. He stretches out on his back under the covers, hands folded under his chest, his attention on the TV. Seems kind of tense for some reason. "Just 'fine'?"

"It was all right," Roman hedges. Finds he doesn't want to talk about it at all. "You okay?"

"Huh? Yeah. Fine. Why?"

Roman shifts to his side and props himself up on an elbow. "I don't know. You just seem like you're crabby or something."

"Nah, I'm just beat. Long-ass day. Good though. That concert was fuckin' killer. Light show wasn't bad, either. Had fun gamblin. Can't complain." Dean bites his lip, though, and his gaze flicks Roman's way. Not much expression on his face. "You look better."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, like more relaxed, I guess. I noticed that earlier. That's good."

"I feel it," Roman admits. "This was a hell of a good idea."

"Mm-hmm."

There's a weird pause, and then Dean rolls to his side so his back's to Roman.

By this point, it's almost a reflex for Roman to slide over to spoon him from behind, knees tucking right into the back of Dean's and his arm around Dean's chest. Worry and alarm chase away the fatigue and the baby hangover headache starting to build. "What's wrong?"

"Weird night, is all," Dean mutters. "I dunno. Don't worry 'bout it. I'll be fine in the morning."

"You don't wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." He pulls Roman's arm tighter around himself. "It'll be fine."

"All right," Roman says. Sometimes that's just the way it is. He pulls the sheets up around them. Then, after just a quick debate with himself, he leans over to drop a quick couple of kisses on the side of Dean's neck, right behind the hickeys. He really wishes they weren't there. They're kind of ugly. He thinks he can see teeth marks in one of them.

He grabs the remote and shuts off the TV so he can't see them.

Dean shifts closer. "G'night."

Despite his worry, Roman smiles a little. It's nice to be needed.  "Night."

This here, this feels better.  Right.

Even if things are confused, at least there's this.

( _"You love who you love_.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to realize one thing isn't working before you realize something else actually is. All I gotta say about that. Thanks for reading.


	4. Peak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who reviewed and read that last chapter. Much appreciated. Y'all are awesome. Things change more.

**Spin**

**IV. Peak  
** _i. it's not gone_

"This," Roman pants, hopping over a wide gap in the rocky trail, "is the worst idea you've ever had, Ambrose." Loose rock crumbles under his boots and skitters down a steep drop-off. Up here, the path not very wide, and it's a long damn way down. "The _worst_."

Ten feet ahead, Dean pauses and looks around. He'd bounded up onto a small boulder like it was nothing, the asshole. Meanwhile, Roman's huffing and puffing his way along, his body not used all all the jumping and scrambling over things they've had to do in the last twenty minutes. He was a football player who ran over dudes. He was never the kind of guy to try for acrobatic catches or fancy plays.

Feet-on-the-ground kind of guy.

This is not feet-on-the-ground stuff.

It'd all started out so nice, too: a wide open trail rolling out like nice flat stretch of dirt carpet. Some hills in the distance. Scrub and cacti lining the path and dotting the surrounding land. Bright, cloudless blue sky, and the sun strong overhead. A little chilly, though, so Roman had been glad he was wearing pants and a hoodie.

Not all that different from walking the beach at home, except that it was an ocean of sand around them instead of water.

Dean in a decent mood helped. Whatever had been bugging him last night, he seemed to have shaken it off by the time they got up and started getting ready to hike. He was all smiles and raring to just bound out the Uber like some eager pup ready to for a walk. He loved the outdoors and got out as often as he could back home.

So the walk started out nice, just the two of them on a quiet trail out in the middle of nowhere.

But then they'd started going uphill.

And kept going uphill. Very uphill.

That wide open trail that they'd been able to walk side-by-side along narrowed until they had to go single-file. Markers kept them going the right way, but there were places where it was all just bare rock, and it would have been real easy to get lost. In places, there were gaps they had to skirt, lots of rocks to get around, and now Roman's hoodie and pants weigh about ten more pounds each because of all the sweating he's been doing.

Plus there's that drop-off.

He's sure there's a nice view somewhere, but for the last twenty minutes, all he's had to look at is red rock and Dean's ass. While Dean's ass is nice and all, it loses its charm after the first few minutes. It's an ass covered by gray pants. There's nothing interesting about it. Or the rocks. They're mostly brown and red. And there are hills nearby that are preventing him from having a view of anything else.

Jackass up there lowers his shades and says, "Aw, c'mon, ya baby. You can do this."

Roman stops beside the boulder and lowers his own shades so Dean can see the glare. That's how serious Roman is. "You better hope I don't catch you, Ambrose. I will kick your ass."

Dean hops off the boulder and laughs. "You won't catch me."

Probably not, but Roman refuses to give him the satisfaction. He feints like he's going to climb over the big hunk of rock.

Still laughing, Dean turns and scoots it up the trail.

"How much further we gotta go, anyway?" Roman calls. There's enough room that he can skirt around the boulder without having to go over it, at least - a good four feet between that and the drop-off. Which is not actually a sheer drop. It's more a hill he'd slide down, but it would still hurt. It's all rock, too.

"I don't know," Dean calls back. "Never been here, remember? Shouldn't be that far, though."

"Shouldn't be." Roman looks ahead just in time to watch Dean skirt another hole in the trail.

Somebody is getting their ass kicked.

This was just supposed to be a nice morning hike out at Red Rock.

It was not supposed to involve this degree of physical exertion.

If he wanted a workout, he would have gone to the hotel's gym. He didn't want a workout. This is his vacation.

"I'm gonna be walking like an old man for the rest of the week," he complains. Just to complain. His legs and lungs are on fire.

"You can go sit in the hot tub when we get back to the hotel," Dean says. He's pretty winded himself. "'Sides, this is good for ya. You spend too much time behind that damn desk as it is. Nice to get out and climb around. And I do think we're gettin' close. I'm startin' to see the view, finally."

Roman sees it himself a couple minutes later when the trail curves to the right and moves another ten feet or so uphill. It's just the desert, but he can see the whole thing stretching out for miles and miles, until it merges with the horizon. Flat sand with hills erupting out of it like tiny volcanoes. Lots of scrub vegetation and probably a lot of cacti.  Not bad.

Ten minutes and another stretch where Roman has to pick his way over some big rock later, he hears Dean call, "Trail's end. They even got a sign here. Wyler's Peak. We made it."

The last little bit of the climb isn't bad, at least. It's steep uphill, but it's smooth. Roman rounds the final bend and finds a panting Dean standing beside a small wooden sign. It does indeed identify the place as Wyler's Peak. There's another sign beside it that asks people to take their trash with them.

Too winded to actually appreciate the view just yet, Roman pauses by the signs and bends over to catch his breath. Sweat drips off his face to the rocks. His muscles quiver and twitch. Now his clothes feel like they weigh about fifteen extra pounds.

He glances up when a clear water bottle taps the back of his hand. "Here," Dean says, laughter in his voice. "Drink this. You sound like you're dying."

"Shut up," Roman grunts, but he takes the water and pours some of it over his face. It's still cool. He drinks a little, and finally straightens up to look around.

Straight ahead, miles in the distance, is Las Vegas. The residential parts of lay out flat like a wide bumpy blanket, interrupted occasionally by a larger building or a park. Behind those, off to one side is a cluster of taller buildings Roman recognizes as the Strip hotels. They look tiny from here, little blocks a kid's stacked up across a room. He can still pick out the Stratosphere tower and a few other places. The Fremont hotels are off to one side, a smaller cluster.

Behind the city are low bare mountains that fade off into the distance.

All around is bare land, hilly and dry. The desert.

It's times like this Roman realizes just how damn _big_ this planet is, and just how small he is. On the beach sometimes, he feels it, too, with the gulf waters stretching as far as he can see them. It's a nice antidote from a humming beehive of an office, people buzzing around all the time, his parents hovering over him.

"Tell me _this_ wasn't worth the hike," Dean says.

"It was," Roman admits. Now that he's able to breathe again, he feels damn good. Accomplished. They'd hiked in about five miles and conquered this beast. He tugs his shades off, arms the water and sweat off his face, and finally grins over at Dean. "It really was. Glad we did this."

Dean'd already hung his shades in the V of his hoodie, so his answering smile is bright blue eyes and dimples. Almost smug. He's damn proud of himself.

But happy.

He looks happy.

He always does, out like this, and Roman feels it, too. The energy.

In a way, he wishes they could just stay like this.

There's a streak of red dirt on Dean's cheek, too, to go along with what's on his clothes and in his hair. They're both pretty musty, but Roman can't seem to break his attention away from that one particular smudge.

"Hell of a view, huh?" Dean says then.

It is. Roman nods.

There's a pause. Dean's grin fades. "What's up?"

Roman blinks. "Huh?"

"You're kinda starin', man," Dean says. "What's up?"

By way of reply, Roman brushes the dust off Dean's cheek with a couple fingers. "Got some dirt."

"Dirt."

Like lightning out of a clear sky, Roman feels a sudden pull to close the distance between them and kiss Dean again. It's not gone. It's not even less than it was before. Might actually be more. He just really wants to. That hand that was on Dean's cheek slides down to cup his, and for no good reason he can see, he leans in and kisses Dean for the fourth time in three days.

Friends don't kiss like this. Roman knows that. He gets what Dean meant last night when he said this was the kind of kissing he did before sex. This was how he's kissed Maria once last night. He gets why it's weird. It is weird. Friends don't kiss like this, but even if Dean hesitates a second, he still turns into it like he wants to just as much as Roman does. Maybe he does.

Probably does.

Up here on a peak miles away from anybody, Roman kisses Dean again. Dean's lips are chapped and his cheek is prickly with stubble, and they're both dirty and sweat-soaked, but it doesn't matter. Roman licks along the sweat-salty line of Dean's mouth, and it opens to let him in. He feels Dean arms slide around him, and he hooks his other arm around Dean's shoulders, leaving almost no space between them.

It hadn't felt right to kiss Maria like this last night, but this does. This really does.

Suddenly, Roman doesn't understand anything.

* * *

_ii. still_

They come up for air who knows how long later, Roman backing off a step without letting go.

Rather than look at Dean just yet, he frowns at just-visible hickeys on the side of Dean's neck, rubs them with a finger. They're pretty faded, but there. Ugly little marks. He still doesn't like them. The thought of covering them with his own actually crosses his mind for a fleeting instant before he shoves it back - _way_ back - into a deep corner of his mind, where he can pretend he didn't actually think it.

Dean's still, breathing quiet and fast, and Roman can feel the pulse pounding right under one of the hickeys.

His own his doing that, too, a little.

When one of them does break the silence, it's Dean with a quiet huff and, "Still, huh?"

"Yeah," Roman admits. "Still."

He braces himself for the inevitable _why_ , but Dean just moves away and drags his chin across his sleeve. "Huh."

That's all he says. Roman dries his own mouth and waits. Nothing else comes.

Dean shrugs out of his backpack and hunkers down over it to pull some water, a bag of almonds, and a handful of granola bars out. Seems pretty calm, as far as Roman can tell, no jerky hands or frowns.

Roman drops his own pack, and grabs his phone out of the side pocket. He doesn't have a real camera with him, so he snaps a bunch of photos of the Vegas skyline and the desert behind them. The trail. The signs. A few stealth ones of Dean drinking water. A couple of awkward selfies with Vegas in the background. Anything to give himself a minute to shake off the weirdness.

_What the hell what the hell what the hell._

It goes soon enough, and once he's got enough pictures, he wanders back to his bag to grab some more water and snacks for himself. The adrenaline's already begun to wear off, so he doesn't let himself sit down. Getting back up again is going to be too hard, and they got a long hike to the parking area.

"You oughtta get a picture of us before we head back down," Dean says, chewing on a mouthful of almonds. "For your mom. She likes that stuff, right?"

"Sure does," Roman nods.

"You think about what to get her this year?"

"Not yet. She hasn't said anything."

"Probably 'cuz of the waffle iron thing last year." Dean dusts off his pants and stands, chuckling. "I still don't know how the hell you managed to confuse _nine_ _iron_ with _waffle iron_. Jesus, I would've thought the graphite shaft thing would've been a dead giveaway. I don't golf, and even I know that."

"I lost my list," Roman says, ears warming. It's still embarrassing almost a year later. "I did make it up to her for her birthday, at least."

"True. And it was a real nice waffle iron."

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Nope." Dean steals a piece of Roman's jerky and cheerfully tears into it. Like nothing ever happened. "You ought to get her some of those rings you fry eggs in and one of those magic bacon-makers. Give her the whole breakfast-making set. Find maybe a funny apron. As like a joke. It'd be hilarious. Then _bam_ you give her like a nice bracelet or something like that as her real gift."

"You know, that's actually not a bad idea," Roman says, chuckling. He's not sure he trusts Dean's good mood here, but he just goes with it. Talking about things just complicates them. "What are you gonna get everybody?"

"Fucked if I know." He's just as bad as Roman about leaving his Christmas shopping until the last minute. They both hate shopping. "Sure I'll figure somethin' out, though. Guess we could look around for stuff while we're here. They got lots of places to shop here, don't they?"

"Yeah, I'm sure they do," Roman says. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Works for me." He sobers, slugs some more water, and moves to stand by the signs again. "Was somethin' I wanted to talk you about while we were out here. Get your opinion on it."

"What's that?" Roman asks, moving over to join him. A breeze stirs the air. It feels good.

He has time to watch a bird in the distance wing it halfway to Vegas before Dean answers, "I've been... I dunno. Not too happy at work lately. It's fine. Real's fine. So everybody else. I'm just gettin' a little sick and tired of gettin' called out to shit like meth parents puntin' their kids down the steps. Havin' to scrape people outta their cars. Shit like that. Havin' to go pull a splinter out of somebody's finger. Shit wears on ya."

"I've noticed," Roman admits. He has. "Told you've been short-tempered lately. I don't think I've ever seen you flip on a delivery guy like that before." Pizza place got their order wrong, and Dean, usually Mr. Chill, slammed the door in the kid's face hard enough to knock the picture off the wall. "So what's up? You thinking about making a change?"

"Maybe?" Dean swats at a fly that buzzes up to his face. "Kinda, like, kickin' around what Seth's doing. The firefighter thing. Or, uh. I dunno. Also kinda thinkin' maybe the Police Academy."

That gives Roman pause. "You wanna be a cop?"

"I know right?" Dean says with an uneasy laugh. "Much trouble as I was, and now I'm wantin' to be one? Fuck's that all about? But I dunno. Maybe it's naive, but I kinda wanna trying and stop some of this shit before it happens. You know? Like those meth parents. Or, hell, maybe if there's an asshole kid like I was, I could get to 'em. Help 'em out. Probably wouldn't happen, but you never know. Might be worth trying."

"I get that," Roman says. He does. It's why he went into the family business: to try to find ways to help. Still, he chooses his next words with care. "It's not that I think it's a bad idea, but cops really aren't popular in this country right now. I'm not sure how safe it would be."

"Bein' a firefighter isn't exactly safe, either," Dean points out. "Different kind of danger, I know, but you could still get hurt. Either way."

"I'd worry no matter what."

"You always worry. I could be a kindergarten teacher, and you'd worry."

"Little kids can be vicious."

"Yeah, I guess they got those little teeth." Dean shudders. "Anyway, yeah, I've been thinkin' about the cop thing a lot. Haven't - you know, I'm not rushin' into it or anything. Just thinkin'. I just - I can't stay doin this EMT stuff forever. I'm burnt. So if I did get into one or the other, what you would think?"

"If it's what you really want to do, then go for it," Roman says without a scrap of hesitation. "I'm right behind you. I'll worry, but you're right - I'll always worry. 'Cuz it's you." He claps Dean's shoulder. "If it's a cop or a firefighter or whatever, go for it. Long as it's what you really want. Kick ass at it."

Dean looks at Roman for a beat or two, and reaches up to squeeze Roman's forearm. "Thanks, brotha. I'm just thinkin' about it, like I said. I won't decide 'til after the new year."

"Yeah, hey just let me know," Roman says. "Or if you just need to bounce ideas off me. Anytime, man."

"Cool."

For a few seconds they just stand there staring at each other. Roman's not sure why, but he feels expectant somehow, like something's gonna happen. It feels like it could. He can tell Dean wants to say something or do something. Dean always gets this look on his face. Determined. He's got that look on his face now.

"Rome, I..." Dean licks his lips. "I just - I wanted..."

"What's up?" Roman asks.

Dean takes a deep breath. "You, uh, you know I love you, right? Like. I know we don't ever say shit like that, but..." He rubs the back of his neck, shrugs. "I just, uh. I just thought. You should know. That. I do. Y'know?"

Of all the things he might have said, that's probably the last Roman expects. It's something neither one of them has really said outside of their way-too-many-beers late nights, when they're both drunk and rambling about whatever. They're really don't about shit like this sober. It's awkward. Doesn't mean it's not nice to hear. Roman smiles. "I know. I do, too, man. You're - shit, you drive me nuts, but there's nobody I'd rather be here with. Couldn't ask for a better friend."

"Right," Dean mutters. He grabs his water again. "Friend. So, uh. Wanna get those pics for your mom?"

"Oh! Yeah," Roman says, grateful for the subject change. "Yeah, let's do that."

* * *

 _iii_. _hard truths_

Roman doesn't know what the hell prompts him to call Seth.

Or - no.

No, he does.

The book.

The climb down off Wyler's Peak had been quiet, both of them too busy trying not to slip and slide down the trail to talk. Even when they were back on the flatter, stabler trail, they didn't talk much. They were both pretty wiped out. Dean kept a much slower pace than he had on the way up, and spent most his time staring either at the sky or out into the brush.

In the Uber on the way back to the hotel, Dean dozed while Roman organized his pictures and texted a few off to his family, mostly to give himself a way ignore how sore he was. His mom texted him back right away with a, "Glad you're having fun," and Jey and Jimmy both demanded updates on how gambling was going. Priorities. They'd given Roman a hundred bucks each to spend. He promised them he'd get to it tonight when he and Dean hit the town.

At the hotel, he and Dean had split off to take showers, Dean in the boom-boom room, and Roman in the main room. Forty-five minutes in the back of a cramped car had left Roman already creaky and achy, grumbling under his breath about needing to hit the gym harder after the first of the year. Of course Dean didn't seem to have any aches and pains.

He'd wanted to go gamble, Dean had, because somehow he still had energy leftover. Roman, slumping down onto the edge of the bed, had mock-glared at him and said, "You drag my ass up that peak and expect me to have the energy to go play? Get the hell outta here."

Dean had laughed. "Okay, Gramps. I'll leave you your afternoon nap. Send up a smoke signal when you want to meet up for shuffleboard. If we get in before five o'clock, we get the senior discount."

Roman had thrown a shoe at his head.

The bastard had just slung his jacket over one shoulder and swaggered out of the room, still laughing.

It really was like nothing had even happened up on Wyler's Peak.

For Dean.

For Roman, who stretches out on the bed with every intention of sleeping for a few hours, it's a song he can't get out of his head. He closes his eyes, and all he can see is himself leaning in for that kiss - on that sunny peak, in the light of the fountain, in bed at home, under the mistletoe. And the hell of it is, he'd do it again. And again. There's something about the way Dean moves and the way he gets so damn _into_ it that is so...

 _Good_.

He really likes it, and that's - it's not a big deal. Dean didn't make a big deal out of it today. Seemed to be going out of his way not to. It's like those first few times they slept real close together. In the morning, it was awkward - and sometimes still is when morning wood is a thing - but they just ignored it, and kept ignoring it. It's normal now. If they don't make a big deal about the kissing thing, that'll probably start to be normal, too.

_Because wanting to suck face with with your gay best friend is completely normal._

It's not.

It's not at all.

Really, he should just stop doing it. He's managed to be friends with Dean for eight years without going there. They don't actually _need_ to do that.

He just wants to.

Frustrated at his inability to sleep, he sits up - groaning, because he's already starting to get stiff and achy - and looks around the room for the TV remote. Some noise might help drown out the mess in his head. He doesn't see the remote anywhere, so he digs into the nightstand drawer, and finds not the remote, but _Gay Sex for Beginners_ getting cozy with the Bible.

He stares at the cover for a while, and finally pulls the stupid thing out and opens it.

Curious, he settled back against the headboard, and flips to the center of the book, where there are glossy pages. Illustrations and pictures. The first one is titled, _Blowjob Techniques_ , and shows a picture of lips curling over to cover up the teeth. The caption reads, "While the feel of a light teeth-scrape on a penis can be very pleasurable, not everyone likes it. Always start out by covering your teeth with your lips. You can work up from there." It's followed by a close-up photo of a short-haired dude demonstrating that exact thing on another dude's dick.

The pictures show the dude working the other dude's dick, all the captions briefly explaining what's going on and directing the reader to the actual chapter in the book that goes into detail about it. The photos mesh up with Roman's own experiences getting his dick sucked. He wonders in passing what it might be like to be on the giving end of that instead, but it's gone as soon as he turns the page and comes to the section on anal sex, which - the positions they show the dudes fucking in are basically the same as Roman's done with the ladies. Different hole, obviously, and more dicks and balls involved than he's used to. Less breasts. Otherwise, it's sex. It's people fucking. He doesn't know why he thought it would be so different. It's not.

He frowns down at one picture for a while - a from-the-back shot of one dude with light brown hair riding another dude - and catches himself wondering if that's what Dean looks like when he-

 _No_.

In his haste to throw the book back into the nightstand, he nearly knocks the lamp onto the floor. The lampshade and the alarm clock both rattle when he slams the drawer shut.

That is not something he needs to be wondering about. There's a line. There's always been a line. They've always stayed on their own sides of that line. Roman does not need to cross that line.

Kissing is one thing. Sex is - no.

He flings himself out of the bed and heads over to grab his phone off the dresser, and his pulse is up, heart pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. _What the hell what the hell what the hell_. In the mirror beside the TV, his eyes are wide, panicky. He barely recognizes himself.

Turning away from that, he unlocks his phone, finds Seth's number, and hits _call_ , fully intending to chew Seth a new asshole for that stupid-ass gift.

 _What the fuck, Rollins_?

Seth picks up on the second ring with a surprise, "Roman! Hey, man, how the hell are ya?"

Roman opens his mouth to start reading Seth the riot act, but forces himself to to take a breath, cool off. "All right," he lies. He starts pacing the length of the room. "How are you, man?"

"Great!" Seth enthuses. "Just hanging out at home, waiting for Charlotte to get here. We're having dinner with her old man tonight. Got some big news for him. Which - hey, I'm glad you called. I got news for you, too."

"What's that?" Roman asks, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He wishes he pulled it back.

"Charlotte's pregnant," Seth says. "We just found out yesterday."

That quick, Roman's agitation evaporates. He sits down at the foot of the bed, and smiles. "Pregnant, huh? I'll be damned."

"I know," Seth says. He sounds like he can't believe it. "You believe this shit?"

"Congrats, man. That's great. Damn. When's the baby due?"

"End of July. She's only about ten weeks along."

"Even so. Wow. You a dad."

"I know," Seth says again, this time with a little laugh. "I thought I didn't even want kids, but now that she's pregnant, man, I'm excited as hell. So is she. Well. She's already bitching that we're gonna have to get her wedding dress altered to accommodate her boobs and the bump, but c'mon. That's small potatoes. We're gonna have a kid."

"You hoping for a boy or a girl?"

"For my first? I kind of want a son, but either one is great by me. I really don't care. It's gonna be spoiled as hell, either way." Seth pauses. "Anyway, so, hey, what are you even doing calling me? I figured you and the wife would be making your drunk and disorderly way up and down the Strip by now."

"Husband," Roman corrects him absently. "Not my wife-"

"Wait, what?" Seth breaks in. "Hang on. Husband? Did you guys actually married? Tell me you got married. I got like a hundred bucks riding on it."

Roman rolls his eyes so hard they almost get stuck. Of course Seth would. "No, we didn't get married. Dean just would rather be called my husband. It's - don't worry about, man. It's Dean. You know how he is."

Halfway across the country, Seth cackles like a wheezy old witch. "It is. That doesn't surprise me at all."

"Shut up," Roman grunts.

"Seriously, though, what's up?"

"Not much." Roman lays back on the bed, and throws an arm over his eyes. Maybe he doesn't need to rip Seth a new one about the book. "We went on about a ten or eleven mile hike this morning up to the top of this peak. Kicked my ass. I'm chilling in the room right now. He's off in the casino. Nah, I was just, uh, calling to say thanks a lot for your damn Christmas presents."

"Oh, the books?" Seth cackles again. Roman wishes he could reach through the phone and punch him. "You like that? I wish I could've given them you myself, but I wasn't invited to your party."

"Yeah, very funny," Roman grunts. "I opened them in front of my cousins. That was _real_ funny. You wait. You just wait. You're gonna get yours. Dean was pretty offended by the, uh, sex book. Said it was an insult, since he could teach me just fine himself. Didn't need a book. I'd watch your back, if I were you."

"Bring it on," Seth says. "It can't be any worse than the dead fish he left in my locker."

It's Roman's turn to laugh. "You know who you're talking about here, right? There is always a worse."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Roman guesses he should probably hang up, but some other part of him has another idea, apparently. "I kissed him."

"Who, Dean?" Seth sounds like he's moving around, things shuffling in the background. "Yeah, I've seen you do that before. Him, too."

Dean's got a thing for kissing the top of Roman's head, and Roman's laid a few drunken ones on Dean's cheek. He shakes his head. "No, not like - uh, never mind."

"Not like what?" Seth asks. Demands.

"Nothing." Roman closes his eyes. "I shouldn't have said that. It's not a big deal."

"Oh, come on," Seth says. "It's me, dude. You know you can trust me with anything. What's up?"

It's true. Asshole or not, Seth knows how to keep a secret. Not that it's something that needs to be hidden, Roman guesses. "I don't know, man. Things are a little weird right now. I kissed him at the Christmas party right in front of everybody. Under the mistletoe. Full-on. My mom thought it meant we were coming out. I think everybody did. It wasn't like that. But I keep doing it. I never wanted to before. I know all you guys think we're like that, but we're not. We're close - just not that close."

Seth's quiet for so long on the other end of the line that Roman actually wonders of the call got disconnected. But eventually, Seth says, "Holee _shit_. So, we're talking, what, like you made out under the mistletoe?"

"Made out," Roman snorts. "What are we, in high school?"

"Just humor me."

"All right, yeah."

"And you keep making out?"

"I don't know why, but yeah."

"You don't know why." Seth's tone is about a dry as the desert. "I mean, I know why I make out with Charlotte. Pretty sure it's the same reason the others do it, too. Why else would make out with somebody?"

"It's different with us," Roman answers, but it's defensive. "We're not like you guys."

"Okay," Seth says. "Here's something I've always wanted to ask you: Let's say that Dean meets a guy, and this guy is the one who finally gets him to break his I-don't-date rule. He falls in love. Now it's some other guy he's spending his time with, some other guy who's making him happy. He doesn't have as much time for you. Then he wants to move out. Move on. So he leaves you behind. I know it's a lot more likely you're the one who falls in love with a woman and leaves _him_ behind, but let's say for the sake of argument, it's him leaving you behind. You gonna be okay with that?"

_Some other guy._

_Leaving you behind_.

Roman sits up, jaw working, free hand a fist beside him on the blanket. It takes him two or three tries to grind out, "As long as he's happy."

That's bullshit.

And Seth, if his skeptical "Sure" is anything to go by, knows it. "That's what I thought. Well, look, if it's not like that, it's not like that. I'll leave you alone about it. But if it is, so what? We'd all be happy for you guys. But you gotta do what's best for you, man. And I got another call coming in - Charlotte - so I gotta get running."

"All right," Roman says simply.

"Have fun," Seth says, "and if you need to talk, you know I am. Good luck."

And then he's gone, the line clicking in Roman's ear like a door closing.

He lays back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

 _Leaving you behind_.

( _"You know I love you, right?"_ )

There is nothing about that that's okay.

* * *

_iv. green-eyed monster  
_

He never does get a nap.

About to crawl out of his own skin if he keeps thinking in circles, he drags his carcass out of bed and swaps his shorts for jeans, pulls his hair back, and limps on down to the casino.

It's only about three in the afternoon, so it's not very crowded down here - just a handful of folks feeding the slot machines, and a few people slouched at the blackjack tables.

Including Dean, who's off at a table by himself, chatting with a blackjack dealer who doesn't appear to be dealing the cards. The guy's leaning on the table, and Roman draws closer, he sees an unmistakably flirty smile on the guy's face. He's smallish and dark-haired, and dressed like all the other dealers in a the white shirt, tie, and maroon vest. His eyes are completely on Dean, who's got his arms folded on the table, and is in full-on charmer mode. He's working those dimples for all they're worth.

Roman, trying his best not to frown, walks right up to them, and says, "Hey, here you are, Dean."

Dean glances around, and his smile widens. "Well, hey, Sleeping Beauty. 'S up?"

"Hungry," Roman says, totally ignoring the blackjack dealer. "Wanna get some food?"

It's pretty gratifying, the way Dean says, "Sure," and slides right off the stool. But he pauses to slide a couple chips across the table to the dark-haired dealer. "Gotta go, but I'll meet you guys in the lobby around eleven."

"See you tonight, slugger," the dealer says, giving Dean a slow smile.

A muscle in Roman's eye twitches. He turns away, telling himself to snap the hell out of it. It's none of his business.

Dean shoves his chips into his pockets and falls into step beside Roman, the pair of them banking around the rest of the tables and heading for the exits.

Roman waits until they're outside and Dean's got his shades on to ask, "Hot date?"

"Threesome," Dean shrugs. "That guy and his boyfriend wanna hook up. Who'm I to turn 'em down."

"Huh," Roman grunts.

Still none of his damn business.

"What's up?" Dean says. "You're kinda clenched."

"I'm _what_?"

"Clenched. Tight. You could crack walnuts with your ass. What's up?"

"I'm _sore_ ," Roman lies. He's tired of thinking about it. "That, and I just talked to Seth."

"Oh, that explains it," Dean laughs, bumping his shoulder into Roman's. "That guy makes everybody constipated. What's up with him?"

"Gonna be a dad," Roman says. "Guess Charlotte's pregnant."

"Oh, no _way_!" Dean exclaims, and it's loud enough that some of the people nearby glance around. He doesn't even notice. "Are you shitting me?"

"No."

"Shit, and here I was gonna get Charlotte a strap-on dildo to use on him for Christmas," Dean says. Again, people look. Again, he doesn't seem to care. "Guess that's out. Or - no. Maybe I still could. But, like, with baby stuff, too. Or would that be weird? That would be weird."

"That would be weird," Roman says, guiding them to a less-crowded part of the sidewalk. He has no idea where they're even going. He's not even that hungry. "Don't do that. We'll just get them some baby stuff. I really am not interested in their sex life."

"I was thinking as revenge for the book," Dean says. "Leave it in his locker at work."

Roman can't help but laugh at that. "He told me you couldn't do worse than the dead fish in his locker."

"Has he met me?" Dean says, snickering. "C'mon. That's a fuckin' challenge if I ever heard one."

"That's what I said."

"Shit, now I gotta think of something else."

"I'm sure you will, babe," Roman says absently, watching a pair of old ladies doddering into a pizza across the street. "You want pizza?"

"Sure," Dean says, easy as anything. One of these days, Roman's going to figure out how the hell he does it.

Pizza turns out to be a good idea, because Dean's in a jokey, fun mood, doing impressions to keep Roman entertained. When the food gets there, he plays with it because he's a child. He holds up two pieces of pepperoni, and says they're Antonio's nipples, which prompts Roman to wonder aloud how Dean even knows that. He'd forgotten that Dean had joined Seth and Antonio at CrossFit a couple times, so he'd seen Antonio without a shirt. Two pieces of crust become pinball flippers for a piece of sausage that ends up in Roman's lap. _Of course_ it does.

If Roman flicks an olive right onto Dean's nose, he's got it coming.

It's worth it for the way Dean laughs, untroubled.

Really, the whole rest of the day goes like that. It's easy to slip into that space, where he's just going with whatever ebbs and flows Dean's got going. They wander around Fremont for a while after their late lunch, no real destination in mind. When Roman spots a nice diamond bracelet at a jewelry shop, he buys it for his mom. Ends up finding a unique watch for his dad, too, with diamond-studded dice on the face. Dad doesn't wear a watch, but he collects them.

After that, they check out the living statues - people who dress up like statues and get paid to hold completely still, something that they both agree Roman could pull off, but that Dean would fail at inside a minute - and meander aimlessly through the crowds of gawking tourists. Conversation happens in fits and starts, but it's never really anything important, mostly just whatever pops into Dean's head:

"I kinda wanna take a trip to the Northwest to go Bigfoot hunting."

"Did you see that lady's _shoes_? They looked like actual _boats_.  That's fuckin' wild."

"Bet this place is a fuckin' blast around Halloween."

"We should go check out that wax museum or something before we leave.  Wouldn't that be fuckin' weird to see yourself like that?  Like - fuck, mannequins and shit are creepy enough, but you're there lookin' at this lifeless wax statue of yourself starin' back at you, all soulless and shit.  That'd be creepy.  I don't think I'd want a wax me.  One of me's enough."

It's nothing that really requires Roman's full attention, so he just kind of relaxes into it, spending as much time people watching as he does listening to Dean chatter away. Things slot right back into the groove, and he doesn't think about much of anything. They end up in a sports bar for a drink, and watch some people having a noisy pool tournament for a while.

When that gets boring, they leave the bar and head up to a casino to play some roulette, where Roman promptly ends up losing Jey and Jimmy's money - neither twenty-one red or sixteen black come up. But Dean wins a couple in a row by alternating red and black. And Roman wins one, loses one, and wins another one. Low stakes at least. It's not quite as fun as the Craps table yesterday, but there are half a dozen people at the table with them, who all get pretty into things. It's still fun.

They start drinking around dark, and that helps keep things smooth.

They find a lively Craps table at another casino and spend most of their evening there, Dean jumping right in like he had yesterday, keeping everybody entertained with bad jokes and lively energy.  It's fun to watch, but Roman can't quite settle all the way into the spirit of things - even with alcohol dulling things at the edges. It feels like he's put his clothes on backwards or he's wearing his skin wrong. He manages to smile and act like he's having a decent time, but he can feel Dean looking questions at him throughout the night.

He avoids eye contact as much as possible.

Trouble is, he's got his eye on the clock the entire time, with _I'll meet you guys in the lobby around eleven_ something that refuses to get out of his head. He doesn't care. He didn't care last night. He doesn't care tonight. It's fine. They're adults, and if they want to go get laid, they can. It doesn't mean anything. It's never been a thing. That's the way they've always been. Hell, Roman can just as easily go find someone for himself tonight, if he wants.

He doesn't, but he could.

It doesn't mean anything, Dean wanting to go screw a couple guys.

( _Some other guy_.)

It's fine.

It doesn't mean anything.

Around eleven, they take their winnings off the Craps table, wade through the packs of partiers and head back to their hotel. They don't say much. Neither of them is anywhere near drunk right now. They'd both paced themselves, Roman not wanting to lose control and say - or do - anything he might regret later, and Dean apparently not wanting to get so shitfaced he can't get it up.

They reach the lobby, and Roman's stomach sinks when he sees a couple dudes hanging out by the elevators, drinks in hand, laughing together about something. He recognizes the dark-haired blackjack dealer. The other dude is similarly dark-haired, pale, and wiry. Neither one is very tall. Roman doesn't know why he notices that, but he does.

Something ugly blossoms in his chest, and he has the wildest urge to grab Dean, kiss him, and suck a giant damn hickey right into the side of Dean's neck in front of them. He doesn't do that. He doesn't do anything, other than mutter a terse, "Have fun," at Dean, and walk away.

Dean calls, "See ya later, Rome," after him, but Roman doesn't slow. He brushes right past the two guys, nearly barreling them over on his way to the elevator.

Suddenly, he wishes he was a lot drunker.

* * *

 _vi_. _myself in hand_

Alone in his room, he strips off his shoes and jeans, and gets in bed. Turns the TV on.

There's the rerun of some bowl game on, and he stares at it without seeing it.

His head's full of everything Seth said today, and nothing makes sense. It's never been like that with him and Dean, but the thought of one of them leaving the other behind is - it's something he doesn't want to think about. Even when he was getting serious with Sasha, he refused to even entertain the idea of kicking Dean out. She wanted him to. She and Dean never got along. She was always making snide comments about Roman having to include Dean in everything, and sometimes it felt like Dean went out of his way to provoke her. Roman felt stuck in the middle sometimes, but he's never, not for a second, regretted picking him. As much as he loved Sasha, he couldn't stay with someone who tried to make him choose. It wasn't fair. Dean was going to be part of his life no matter what.

_Except maybe he's not._

Maybe one or both of them will meet someone else, and things will change.

Life does that.

As much as he might not want it to, it does.

What he really wants is a damn time machine so he could go back to the Christmas party and stop himself from kissing Dean the way he had. Maybe then things wouldn't feel like they're in this weird spin. Maybe he'd be asleep now instead of wondering why he can't just shrug this off as no big deal like Dean is. It's not a big deal. It's not like that.

 _But_.

The TV flickers and flashes in green and reds and whites, and still, he doesn't pay attention. Voice pass by in the hallway, and he doesn't pay attention. A door opens and shut somewhere nearby, and he doesn't pay attention.

Those same voices mutter through the wall, low and muffled, and then he pays attention, sitting up and turning to stare at a spot right above the headboard. Laughter drifts through, a lot of it, loud and long. They're in the boom-boom room.

Dean brought the blackjack dealer and the dealer's boyfriend back to the boom-boom room.

Which is what it was for, but God, Roman doesn't need this right now.

He lays back down and drags a pillow over his head.

It doesn't help.

He gets up long enough to grab his headphones and his phone out of his bag, and turns on some music just as loud as he can stand it. That helps for a good, long while. He can't hear laughter or anything from the other room, and if he can't hear it, he doesn't have to think about Dean kissing other dudes.

Dean's an adult, and he can do that if he wants to, period.

And things would have been fine if the banging hadn't started.

It's like right behind Roman's head, like they decided to fuck right on top of the dresser, which Roman knows is what's on the opposite side of the wall. He can feel it bumping into the wall behind him, and when he tugs his headphones off, he can hear a low, muffled grunting and much louder moaning. A rhythmic rocking. The thump-thump-thump of the dresser of whatever knocking into the wall.

He wants to pound on the wall himself and yell at them to knock it the hell off.

He doesn't.

It's the grunting that gets him because he's pretty sure that's Dean, and for no goddamn good reason, his brain serves him that image from the book of one dude riding another. He gets warm. Things start stirring almost despite himself. He's reaching to squeeze himself through his underwear almost before he can stop himself. He shouldn't be doing this.

 _Put your damn headphones back on_ , he tells himself.

He doesn't do that, either.

Because he hears a very distinct, "Oh, _fuck_ yeah," from Dean - definitely Dean - and the sound of it goes right to Roman's dick. He slips his hand into his underwear, and, starts jerking himself off dry. The friction isn't all that comfortable, but he deserves that. This is gross. He shouldn't be getting himself off to his best friend getting laid, but he closes his eyes, drops his head back against the wall, and does it anyway. Because right on the other side of the wall, Dean's grunting, "Fuck, _fuck_ , like that, take that dick, yeah, just like that, _fuck_ ," and it's like listening to a porno.

Roman kicks the blankets off, tugs his underwear to his knees, and lets his hand fly up and down his dick, quick and dirty. All there is in his head is the images he saw in the book, and Dean talking behind him, and his own thumb flicking over his damp tip. The rocking behind him reaches a fever pitch, and just about then, when Dean's cussing up a storm, Roman comes all over himself, hard. He's quiet when he does, just a harsh inhale and a gusty exhale.

In the other room, it sounds like Dean comes, too, with a loud groan and a, " _Fuck_ yeah. Shit. Oh shit."

Roman, panting and tingling all over, stares down at the mess on his shirt and his hand, shame and embarrassment riding in before he can even come down from the orgasm high.

 _What the hell what the hell what the hell_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are coming to a head, so to speak.


	5. What Happens In Vegas...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves.

**Spin**

**V. What happens in Vegas...  
**_i._ _morning after_

When things finally do reach their boiling point, they reach it fast.

But it's not until Wednesday night, their last in Vegas, that that happens.

Tuesday - the day after Roman's jerk-off session - is about as low-key and easygoing as days come. They sleep in until Roman's grumbling stomach wakes them up. Dean's nothing more than a few tufts of hair corkscrewing up over the edge of the comforter when he mumbles, "Go order room service, Rome. 'Member 'm not food. Don't eat me."

"You're too stringy to be any good, anyway," Roman says, prying himself out of bed. His legs are stiff rusty hinges. Even his ass muscles hurt. He didn't think would be possible. "Not enough meat on your bones."

A pair of half-lidded, smiling blue eyes appear right on cue. Sometimes Roman sets him up on purpose. "Got plenny of meat in my bone. No complaints last night."

Roman pauses beside the desk. "I heard. I wish I hadn't heard. But I heard. You couldn't have taken that somewhere else? I was trying to sleep."

Dean lowers the comforter away from his face, and has the grace to look apologetic. "'M sorry," he says through a yawn. "Wasn't my idea. Blackjack guy wanted to see his boyfriend get, uh, railed on the dresser. 'S like right on the other side of the wall, isn't it? Shit, I didn't even think about that. Sorry. If I bring anyone else back there, we'll be quieter."

"Thanks," Roman says, mollified. He can tell Dean means it. That matters. It doesn't make what Roman did any less embarrassing, but he supposes he'll just let it go. He's jerked off to weirder things.

He orders them breakfast, and they eat it sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, rumpled shirts and shorts, messy hair. On the flatscreen, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck are trying to outdo each other onstage. It's like being a couple kids on a Saturday morning, sunlight streaming in through the curtains and a day of whatever they want to do on the horizon.

The very first time Dean stayed over, they'd sat in front of Roman's TV with bowls of sugary Froot Loops. _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ on DVD _._ Roman was seventeen and just glad to finally have a friend who didn't think it was weird he still watched cartoons. His football teammates had outgrown them, switching instead to gross-out comedies and movies overflowing with tits and asses. While Roman was into that kind of stuff, too, he still liked to dig out the old cartoons sometimes.

Dean was a battered seventeen himself, just turned, quiet and guarded. It was the first time Roman could remember actually seeing him look relaxed at all. At school, Dean walked around like he expected somebody to start swinging at any moment. As often as he turned up with bruises, Roman got the impression that was something that happened a lot. He never asked, though, figuring when Dean was ready to talk about it, Dean was ready.

It was just nice to have a friend who didn't judge, was all, and Roman returned the favor as much as he could.

These morning breakfasts in front of cartoons got to be a thing over the years. It was over one of these that came out, dropping, "Turns out I'm gay," as casually as he'd dropped his spoon into his cereal bowl to scoop more out. A few weeks after that, Roman dropped his news about being accepted to Georgia Tech the same way. A few years later, he dropped his news about dating Sasha. Something to be clewed up and absorbed, digested.

Mostly accepted with just a nod and no need for further conversation.

Even when Dean came out, it was more a confirmation of something Roman had already guessed. Dean had already pretty much figured out Roman was dating Sasha.

There's nothing heavy between them this particular Tuesday Roman feels like bringing up. There's _something_ , but he's not even sure what it is yet. It's a murky, sludgy soup of everything Seth said and his own behavior over the past couple days, and _yeah_ , yeah, there's something, but he's not in the mood to dig at it today. Beside him, Dean is watching cartoons with this mellow smile, and it feels like it's going to be one of Roman's favorite kind of easygoing days, where Dean's in a good mood but not bouncing off every available surface. There's no need to bog it down with anything.

That, and Roman doubts that either one of them is going to get swept off their feet by some mysterious stranger in their last two days here, and want to suddenly move on. And they'll be busy with Christmas stuff once they get home, so it's not like things are going to make any kind of abrupt change in the next week or so. He doesn't _have_ to worry about anything Seth said, and as long as he keeps his damn lips to himself, that ought to keep things from being awkward between Dean and himself for the rest of their vacation.

So like any mature adult, Roman deals with things by ignoring them.

It works out pretty good.

For a while, anyway.

* * *

 _ii_. _bro-mates_

"Yeah," Dean says later that afternoon, popping a saucy chicken wing into his mouth," _Godfather_ is great, but I dunno. I got a soft spot for Joe Pesci. I fuckin' love _Goodfellas_ , what can I say?"

" _Godfather_ is a classic, though," Roman points out. He sips his beer to try to cool off the spicy buffalo sauce he'd just eaten. He swears he can taste habaneros. "You can't argue with a classic."

Dean grabs a napkin off the pile and glances around the bar. It's only six or so, so it's not that crowded in here, but people are starting to trickle in. Kind of a nondescript place, a lot of dark wood and dark green. Frosted windows. High-top tables. One or two TVs over the bar itself.

Wings are good and the craft beers they've been trying for the last hour aren't bad, either.

This place had come highly recommended by the tour guide who'd taken them around the Mob Museum earlier today.

Roman's not much of a history buff, but even he has to admit it was pretty damn cool to learn about the history of Vegas and how organized crime played a role not only in shaping this city, but so many others in the past. It's a rich, checkered history, one both he and Dean get pulled into.

It was Dean wondering what it might have been like to live that life for real that led them into talking about gangster movies.

"You can argue with anything," Dean says, wiping a smear of sauce off his lip. "I can, anyway. It's me. But I'll give you this: _objectively_ , _Godfather_ is better, but I still like _Goodfellas_ more."

"That's fair," Roman says. "What was that one we saw a couple years ago? It was on HBO or something. Was it-? It was Coens, right? The Irish mob and the Italians mob fighting, I think?"

"Oh. The one with the hat," Dean nods. "Yeah. _Miller's_...something. I don't remember. That was good, too. What was it? 'Give 'em the high-hat' or somethin'? 'Take your flunky and dangle.' Fuckin' old slang, man. That shit was _cool_. Can you imagine talkin' like that? Almost kinda poetic in a way."

"Poetic?" Roman shakes his head. "I doubt most people talked like that."

"How do you know?" Dean leans forward. "Were you reincarnated from that time period, Rome?"

Roman grabs another wing out of the tray. "I doubt it," he says.

"Mm." Dean drains his beer and signals for the bartender to bring another one. "Yeah. I'm guessin' if you're reincarnated from anywhere, it's probably-"

"Don't say from Roman times," Roman says.

"Why not? Roman Empire? C'mon. You'd fit right in." Dean's eyes narrow. "You could totally have been a gladiator. I'd've bet on ya for sure. I'd bet you money you were a gladiator in a past life. I bet you anything I _bet_ on you in a past life."

The bartender - a trim, quick little dark-haired dude - brings Dean out another pale beer and whisks away their empty glasses. Roman, meanwhile, eyes the foamy head of Dean's new beer thoughtfully. "I don't know if I believe in all that past life stuff," he says, "but let's say it's true that it's possible. Do you think people who knew each other before could really meet again?

Dean snags another wing and gnaws on it. "I don't see why not. I mean, yeah, it could be random, I guess, but wouldn't it be cool if you met up again and again in different lives and different places? Like maybe you're drawn together. Like maybe me and you knew each other in the Wild West a few hundred years ago. Or we knew each other during the Roman Empire. That's some kinda deep shit, you know it?"

"Sounds like soulmates," Roman comments, "in a way."

"Or bro-mates, at least," Dean says. His nose wrinkles. Whether it's from the hot wing or something else, Roman's not sure. "That soulmate stuff sounds like a lotta chick-flicky romantic mumbo-jumbo to me."

"You don't think people have soulmates?" Roman asks, dipping his head to catch Dean's eye.

"Do you?" Dean counters.

"I think it's possible," Roman says, the back of his neck warming. "Two people meant to be together as friends or more than that? Maybe not like how it is in the movies with all that stupid melodrama and dumb comedy crap, but yeah. I think it's possible. Don't you?"

"I mean..." Dean drops the gnawed-clean wing bone back onto the tray and picks up another napkin. "Never thought about it, but _meant_ to be? I don't think so. I don't buy there's destiny or fate involved. I think it's more just that get lucky to meet somebody you really click with. If they're somebody you care about and you know they care about you, you're gonna wanna keep 'em in your life - whether they're a friend or whatever. Right? To me that's more, like, _real_ than this 'oh we're just meant to be' bullshit. 'Cuz real life ain't that easy, is it?

"Like, okay," he goes on. "Let's pretend me and you are, like, bro-mates or soulmates or whatever. We fuckin' _hated_ each other when we met, and if we'd kept ignoring each other, we would've gone our separate ways and never even known we could have been friends. We chose different. We chose to give each other a second chance. Turned out to be a great decision. But we _chose_ this. That's why I don't think it's a 'it was meant to be' as much as it was 'we made the right choice.'"

"So like we're in charge of our destiny, in other words," Roman says, nodding. "I like that. We made the right call."

"We did," Dean says with a smile. He raises his glass. "We're a coupla pretty fuckin' smart dudes, Rome. In addition to being incredibly fuckin' handsome."

Roman, warm and content, picks up his own beer and touches it to Dean's. "And humble."

"Well, _yeah_."

When Dean lowers his glass away from his mouth, there's a little bit of foam on his upper lip that Roman wants to kiss away. Or lick away. He wants to use his mouth to make it disappear. He'd do it if they weren't in a bar right now. Just because. And if the way Dean's smile widens a little means anything, he knows it. His tongue flicks out and slides across the foam, slow and in a way that is more over-the-top ridiculous than actually sexy. Which is Dean to a tee, and Roman likes that a hell of a lot.

All of it.

All of this.

He swallows more of his beer and tries to decipher the look on Dean's face. It's like trying to unscramble one of those Escher paintings with the staircases that don't go anywhere. Sometimes Dean's an open book, but when he wants be, he's impossible to get a read on.

"So who you think would win a fist fight?" he asks suddenly. "Young Vito Corleone or Tommy DeVito?"

Roman chuckles and grabs the last wing. "I mean, come on, man. That's not even a contest..."

* * *

_iii. one step closer_

That night, they head back out to the Strip to see what turns out to be a half-decent comedy show.

It's a guy who was relevant for a minute back in the late 90s and is coasting on that same shtick. A lot of is recycled Seinfeld gags and "my ex-wife is such a bitch" anecdotes that Roman's seen in dozens of routines on Netflix. Nothing unique or original about it. But it's at least funny when the guy starts insulting the crowd in front of him, picking on what one lady's wearing and calling it the result of a drunken one-night stand between a hippo, and giraffe, and a zebra.

"Try picturing that in your head," the guy says, and Dean and Roman both bust out laughing.

They're slouched together in one of the back rows, the only two people there. There's not a huge crowd, but what crowd there is is at least trying to be enthusiastic, which keeps the atmosphere light. Roman gets a kick out of Dean trying to guess the punchlines while the comedian is still setting up the joke. A couple times, Dean's even right. A few times, Roman finds Dean funnier than the comedian:

The comedian, in his thick Bronx accent, starts, "If I had a dollar for every time I get called ugly-"

"You'd be rich enough pretty soon _everyone_ would think you're hot," Dean mutters, and Roman chuckles.

"-I could buy myself a private island and a jet, and it wouldn't fuckin' matter," the comedian finishes. "I'd be too busy bein' tan and touring I wouldn't give a shit."

After the show's over, Roman and Dean spill outside onto the Strip with the rest of the audience, blinking into the bright lights and surprisingly thick Tuesday night crowd. It's after eleven, and Vegas is alive and humming. Cars all floating along the street. Music playing - some Christmas stuff from one of the hotels - and everything just neon-drenched and alive.

He and Dean slot into the crowd and let it carry them wherever it's going.

They pass some frat bros having a chug-off outside the MGM Grand, where they're trying to drink these beers that are longer than Roman's arm. They walk by people screaming on the New York, New York roller coaster. They spot a group of people apparently heading to a sexy Christmas party, a group of scantily clad male and female elves along with a sexy Santa and Mrs. Claus, all ho-ho-hoing together on their way to wherever they're going.

Roman's had enough beers by now that he feels like he's floating a ways above it all, like everything is revolving around his head like a slow carousel. His arm's around a Dean who's rambling away about the comedian in his usual aimless, half-drunk way. It's the same ramble Roman's heard a hundred times in his life, and one he's sure he'll hear a thousand times more before it's all said and done. It's a favorite tee shirt, well-worn and comfortable, one that always feels good when he pulls it on.

He slings an arm around Dean's shoulders and lays a sloppy kiss on Dean's cheek, and together they follow the ho-ho-ho train on up past the Venetian Hotel.

Eventually, they get bored of drinking their way up the Strip, and grab a cab back to the hotel. By then, Roman's pretty tired. Even it was a low-key kind of day, they'd actually done a lot of walking - both around the Mob Museum and around Fremont when they'd done some more Christmas shopping - and Roman's dogs are barking.

"Y'gonna go play tonight?" Roman asks as they're pushing through the hotel's front doors. His tongue's a little thick, the words a little slurred. He's not drunk, but he's close.

Finds himself hoping Dean'll just want a night in. "Pretty wiped, actually," Dean says. "Rather just chill in the room tonight. I still got one more night to go fuck around. You know?"

"'S right," Roman says, aware he's grinning like an idiot, but not able to help himself. Stupid beer.

It's just nice to have things back the way they were last week.

As soon as they're in the room, Roman pulls Dean to a stop and gives him the kiss he's been wanting to give him for the last six hours, gently pushing Dean up against the wall beside the dresser and cupping his face between two hands. His head's spinning from all the beer he's had today and he doesn't know what he's doing, but right now he doesn't give a damn. All that matters is Dean kissing him back and their tongues sliding together and Dean's hands grabbing double handfuls of ass like they _always_ do and how this is already so damn familiar. The stubbly prickle against Roman's fingers. Still doesn't know what he wants, but he knows he doesn't want to stop doing this.

It's damn addictive.

He thought he was all about the way the ladies melted into him - and he his - but he's also all about the way Dean pushes against him, too. The way Dean doesn't hesitate to take charge when he wants to, only to pull back and let Roman have his way for a while. The way he loses track of time, and doesn't even care.

When he surfaces for air, he drops his forehead against Dean's, and doesn't open his eyes. His hands drift down to Dean's shoulders. And he just breathes. They both do, fast and quiet, just for a few seconds, before Dean nudges his way back in for another kiss, fast and demanding.

Roman doesn't get hard, but it feels like it's not going to take much. Things are getting warm. He could.

He _could_.

But suddenly Dean pushes him away, an all-at-once shove that catches Roman so off-guard he stumbles backward a step. "The hell, man?" he manages, dazed. "What?"

"Sorry," Dean mutters, gaze skittering away. He's as red as a damn stop light. "Sorry. I just - I'm 'bout to piss my pants here." One hand's curled over the front of his jeans. "I gotta, like, I just really gotta go, is all. Sorry."

He darts off to the bathroom without another word, leaving Roman to blink after him, confused.

It's doubly confusing when the shower kicks on right after the toilet flushes.

The sound of the water seems to remind Roman's bladder it's pretty full, so he grabs one of the key cards to the boom-boom room off the table, and heads over to use the bathroom there. But once he's in the other room, he swears to God he hears Dean groaning through the wall, soft and relieved. Dirty. The sound shoots straight to Roman's dick. He stumbles into the bathroom, leans back against the sink counter, and yanks open his jeans. And he jerks off right then and there, eyes squeezed shut, and his brain serving up that sound on a loop.

He's too horny - and a little too buzzed - to feel embarrassed about it this time, at least, but he's still quiet about it, throwing his head back and biting his lower lip when he comes.

It's only embarrassing when he has to clean up the mess on the floor, and when he realizes he'd gotten a little come on the bottom edge of his tee shirt. He washes everything hastily with scalding hot water, avoiding eye contact with his reflection in the mirror, and finishes taking care of business here.

Dean's already done with his shower and is in bed by the time Roman gets back to the room. He's flipping through the channels on TV, Dean is, and doesn't look at Roman when he asks, "Where'd you go?"

"Boom-boom room," Roman says. "Bathroom."

"Oh." There's a pause, and, "We got, uh, _Transformers_ or one of the _Fast and Furious_ movies. Or a replay of one of the bowl games from tonight. Everything else is kinda crap. Whaddya think?"

Roman steps over to the closet and slips off his shoes. " _Fast and the Furious_ , I guess. I haven't seen all of those yet."

He strips out of his jeans and pulls on a dry tee shirt before he crawls onto his side of the bed. Doesn't really look at Dean, either, and makes sure there's some space between them. Dean turns up the volume on the movie - it's the third one, Roman thinks - but even with the explosions and gunning engines to fill all the silent spaces in the room, it feels heavy with everything he and Dean aren't saying to each other.

Because they're mature adults who handle stuff by pretending nothing happened.

It's easier to just ignore it.

* * *

_iv. until it isn't_

Until it isn't.

Until it's late on their last night here, and they stumble into the room, buzzed and buzzing from probably the best concert Roman's ever been to. Red Hot Chili Peppers at the MGM Grand. They'd been back in the back, just because Roman had gotten the tickets so late, but it hadn't even mattered. Surrounded by thousand of hyped people shouting the words to well-known songs at the top of their lungs, it was still a blast. The band's last show of this particular tour. They went all out. Roman had enough beer in him not to be self-conscious about letting his voice fold in with the rest of the crowd's, and Dean was just Dean, bouncing in front of his seat and singing and sweating his ass off.

Like yesterday, they'd stuck together the whole day, sleeping in late again (mostly because of hangovers) and eating in bed. Napping afterward. It was a rainy, gray morning, and neither of them felt like going out in it. When they got up in the afternoon, it was still gray, but the rain had at least stopped. Still cold as shit outside, though. Not a whole lot of people out in it, and Roman didn't blame them. He froze his ass off on the short walk he and Dean took over to stuff their faces with greasy fries and chili dogs.

They'd gone back to the Strip to look for Christmas presents at the Forum Shops at Caesars, and then they'd headed over to the Luxor - that big pyramid-shaped hotel - to go check out an exhibit called "Bodies." Like the Mob Museum yesterday, Bodies turned out be cool as hell. It was rooms full of organs and bones and skinless bodies, and a tour that explained how all the various things inside worked. There were even things like the black lung of a smoker set next to a healthy one, and a heart with heart disease, and one that showed the effects of obesity on the body. Cancer. It was as sobering as it was interesting.

Of course, Dean being Dean, he couldn't resist getting "Dem Bones" stuck in Roman's damn head, when he started singing, "The toe bone connected to the foot bone. The foot bone connected to the heel bone. The heel bone connected to the ankle bone."

A young couple turned to glare at them, so Roman elbowed Dean to get him to cut out out.

Dean stopped singing, but he kept humming the stupid song through the rest of the tour, so naturally Roman started humming it in his own head, and couldn't stop. He hummed it to himself on the way back to drop off the Christmas gifts they'd bought. And down at the blackjack table at the casino. And over plates of sushi at dinner. And back at the MGM hotel, while they were waiting in line to get into the concert.

It must have been stuck in Dean's head, too, because he started humming it.

Roman had bumped his shoulder. "I'm gonna connect my foot bone with your ass bone if you don't cut it out."

Sometimes he just walked right into it. Dean had turned a wicked smile around and said, "I can think of a better bone to-"

"Don't," Roman cut him off. There were dozens and dozens of other people around.

Like that ever stopped Dean. "I was just gonna say, there are better bones to connect to the ass bone. More fun ones."

"Shut your mouth bone, Ambrose," Roman had muttered, his ears burning. "Or my fist bones'll shut it for you."

"You started it," Dean said. He'd stuck his tongue out. "Bonehead."

Roman had pulled him into a headlock and ground a knuckle into the crown of his head, like they always used to when they were kids. People looked at them funny. Suddenly, he didn't care. They were were strangers, those people, so it didn't matter what they thought. He let a squirming Dean go, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kept him close.

And they'd stayed close during the concert, frequently bumping into each other when they got up to sing along to songs like "Suck My Kiss" and "Give it Away" - the ones they knew. During one of the newer songs he didn't know so well, Roman had time to think it was a shame they were already going home tomorrow. Four nights here hadn't felt like enough time. Tomorrow they'd have to fly home to Roman's family and holidays, their friends, and responsibility. It'd been nice to not think about any of that much for a few days.

As much as he loved Florida and loved having all his family around, there was a part of him that really wanted to just grab Dean and go. Disappear for a while. Because home meant the two of them getting side-eyed by Roman's parents, people making assumptions, and the questions he knew would be coming from people like Seth and Antonio and Natalya. The _looks_. He wasn't ready for any of that,

He just wanted to keep singing his lungs out and jam with Dean and not think about it.

Staying close to Dean at the concert meant it was kind of inevitable that one of them would get beer spilled on them. Dean, in this case. Somebody accidentally bumped Roman from behind, and Roman knocked into Dean's elbow, and next thing he knew, Dean was wearing a whole cup of beer on his shirt and the front of his jeans. Looked like he peed himself. Dean shrugged it off at the show, and kept on drinking like it was no big deal.

It wasn't a big deal.

They shouted and drank and Dean got down and neither of them were going to have a voice left tomorrow, but it was worth every second of it.

As they followed the herd out of the arena after the show, Dean said, "We gotta go back to the hotel so I can change. 'Cuz I wanna go play one time before we go, but I don't wanna smell like a fucking bar."

By 'play', Roman knew he meant get laid.

It put a damper on things, but there wasn't much Roman could - or wanted to - do about it. Still none of his business what Dean got up to on his own time. Adult, and all. In theory. "That's fine," he'd grumbled, rubbing his ears to try to get rid of that post-concert muffle, "as long as you remember what I said about the boom-boom room."

"No fucking right up against the wall," Dean had said. "Wasn't gonna."

"All right then."

In the cab, Dean was hyper as hell, going on about how kick-ass the show was and dancing in his seat and singing bits of "Give It Away" just because he could. It was better than "Dem Bones," anyway, so Roman ignored the hell out of the crusty looks the cab driver gave them. Just enjoyed all the bright lights blurring around them and sitting shoulder to shoulder with his friend in the back of a warm cab.

And now:

Now.

Their hotel room.

Roman unlocks the door and heads in, Dean right behind him, still bouncing on his heels.

And just like night, Roman turns and grabs Dean and before they get far inside. Pushes him up against the wall. Doesn't stop to think about what he's doing. It doesn't even feel weird anymore to lean in for that kiss. He doesn't understand a damn thing, but the rough prickle of whiskers against his fingertips and Dean not being curvy or soft in any ways Roman's familiar with and Dean grabbing ass with both hands, it's getting to be normal. Something he's used to. Something he wants. Dean against the wall, kissing back for all he's worth, that's something Roman likes.

Those noises Dean makes deep in his throat, they light a damn fire in Roman's veins.

And suddenly it's like something snaps and they're in freefall.

He presses a thigh between Dean's legs, right up tight into the fork of Dean's crotch and he can feel a bulge there, tight and warm, and it does something to him. He starts stirring. He and Dean just go into a frenzy of kissing, Dean's hand kneading Roman's ass and Roman kind of grinding his thigh gently into that bulge.

Dean tears away from the kiss and mutters, " _Fuck_ , Rome, what're you-?"

"I want to," Roman cuts him off, and he punctuates that by sucking a hard hickey right over Dean's pulse point. His head's alcohol fuzzy and he's warm all over. And this is either the best or the worst idea he's ever had. He doesn't know. "I want to."

" _Fuck_ ," Dean bites out again. "Rome-"

Roman stoppers the words behind another kiss, and lets his hand slide down to the beer-damp front of Dean's jeans. He's never touched Dean there before except on accident, but he does now, covering the whole bulge with his hand and squeezing it. Dean groans in the kiss and pushes himself into Roman's hand.

It's fast.

Like that first kiss under the mistletoe, everything happens fast.

Dean tears himself away fast and looks at Roman with wide, dark eyes. "You want to," he pants. He's brick red. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," Roman lies. He's not sure about anything. But he's willing to try. He rubs a light circle across where he can feel Dean's hard-on straining. It's just a dick, he tells himself. He's touched his own a million times in his life. He knows how they work.

But, oh, he is _not_ ready for it when Dean nips at his earlobe and kisses the side of his neck and says in that low, gravel-rough voice, "I really wanna suck your dick, Rome. Let me?"

A gear strips in Roman's head and all he can do is nod, because that sounds like a winner. Getting his dick sucked is always a winner. And before he even has time to process it, Dean's swapped them around. Roman's ass hits the wall, then his shoulders, and then his bun. He tugs the tie out impatiently and shakes his hair down around his shoulders. And Dean's kissing him again, fast and frantic, warm hands sliding up under Roman's shirt and pulling it up out of the way so he can lick his way down it. Suck his way down it. He works Roman's nipples up to hard points with a couple of fingers, and bites a little trail from one down to Roman's navel. And lower.

He sinks to his knees and Roman just watches, transfixed, because there's Dean on his knees on the floor, fingers fumbling for Roman's fly, and it's a lot. It's a lot. It's a hell of a lot. Something in the back of his brain flashes red at him, tells him to slow down, but he ignores it because he's not sure about anything right now but he doesn't think he wants this to stop any more than he wanted to stop that kiss four days ago.

And he learns that Dean does suck dick just like he kisses: confident, headfirst, like he knows he's good at it and wants to show off. He doesn't waste any time freeing Roman's dick from the confines of his jeans and bending down to take it into deep into his mouth. Roman's not exactly that small (he's not porn star huge, either, but he's not small), but Dean manages to swallow his dick nearly all the way down in one go, and Roman's mouth drops open around a groan when the feels that wet heat closing around him.

It's just a flurry of a licking tongue and hard suction and Dean's hand stroking up to meet his mouth and. yeah, _yeah_ , Dean knows what he's doing. Roman's had enough bad blowjobs to know a good one when he feels it, and the way Dean just dives in like it's exactly what he wants, is - good. It's good. A lot. But it's good. Dean alternates between rubbing Roman's balls between wet fingers and sucking on them while he palms Roman's dick. He takes Roman almost all the way down and pulls off, sucking hard, and then works Roman's tip with the flat of his tongue, hard and soft, fast and slow. Roman cradles the back of Dean's head, fingers curling around the shaggy hair there, and just holds on.

Dean starts humming, and the vibrations feel great.

Until he realizes just what it is Dean's humming. That damn song again. The bubble pops. Roman lifts his head. "Are you serious?"

"Mm." Dean pulls back off Roman's dick, grinning. His chin's shiny with spit and his mouth is very red. Looks good. And he's got that damn wicked look in his eyes when he sings, "Mouth bone connect to Roman's bone."

He buries his face into Roman's hip, giggling like an idiot, and Roman loses it, too, because it's _ridiculous_.

Roman tugs on Dean's hair to get him to lean back so they can make eye contact again. "Dumb-ass," he says, but it's affectionate. Meant as much for himself, too. He cannot even believe any of this is happening right now.

Everything's kind of hazy, and he lets his head fall back against the wall while Dean finishes getting him off. It feels pretty good, the way Dean swallows him down and sucks hard when he lifts off. The way he does it with just a tiny bit of teeth scrape at the end.

Roman does come soon after, faster than he wants to, but he can't hold off. All he can do is tug Dean's hair as a warning, close his eyes, and let himself go over. He comes hard, groaning, into Dean's mouth. Dean chokes a little, but swallows around him, and that feels good, too. It always does. As good as it is to fuck somebody, Roman actually prefers a good blowjob more. Somebody not afraid to get down and really suck his dick, work it over, that's about as good as it gets.

Cool air on his dick tells him Dean's pulled off, but it takes him a minute to gather himself enough to open his eyes. When he does, he finds Dean still crouched down on the floor, rubbing his dick. Dean gets up when he sees Roman looking at him, crowds in close, and guides Roman's hand to his dick.

"Your turn, Rome," he says, moving Roman's hand back and forth a few times to indicate what he wants.

 _Oh_.

Roman curls his fingers around Dean's hard-on and, without thinking about it too much, jerks him off. It's only fair. He doesn't actually look down at what he's doing, but instead goes by feel and instinct: he likes it when he twists his hand at the end of each stroke and thumbs his tip, so he tries that with Dean. Goes fast and slows down. Gets a feel for the size and texture of it, noticing it feels like there's not as much difference as he might have expected: Dean's not as thick around as Roman, but he's about the same length. Curves up a little. Makes the angle a little awkward, but Roman's too tired to care.

Dean's into it. Thats' good enough. As long as he gets Dean off and gets this done, that's fine. It's fair. "Yeah," he pants, clutching at Roman's side. "Just like that. Fuck, that's good. Figured you be good at that, often as you do it. Hand bone connect to my bone," he adds, sing-songing. "Get-tin' me off."

"Dumb-ass," Roman says again, picking up his pace.

He hadn't lasted all that long when Dean was blowing him, so it comes as kind of a relief that Dean doesn't last all that long here. Seems like barely a minute before Dean drops his forehead onto Roman's shoulder and grits out, "Fuck, just like that. I'm close. Shit, I'm close."

Just a few seconds after that, he's coming, an open-mouthed groan muffled into the fabric of Roman's tee shirt, and his fingers digging into Roman's side. It's messy, dribbling all over Roman's hand and onto his jeans and down onto the floor. Dean rides it out through a muffled curse and a long exhale, body shuddering, and his hips jerking forward. He turns his face so it's against the side of Roman's neck.

And then it's over.

It's just over, like the band at the Christmas party finishing the song. The dance is done.

He'd - _they_ \- they _had_ , and that's it.

A kind of heavy, surprised silence fills the room as Roman lets go of Dean's dick, broken only by the sound of them breathing. They stand sagged together against the wall, beside the dresser, Roman suddenly exhausted and dazed and unable to think anything except, _That just happened_.

And already he kind of wishes it hadn't.

* * *

_v. ...stays in Vegas_

They peel apart eventually, Dean walking over to sit down on the corner of the bed. He looks about as burnt out as Roman feels when he bends over to rub his eyes. "Fuck."

Roman leans against the dresser and wipes his sticky hand on his jeans. They're toast anyway, as spotted with Dean's come as they are. Even his shoe got some on it. More on the carpet in front of his toe. He can smell how bad he reeks like sex. Not sure he likes it that much. It doesn't feel that great when he tucks his dick away.

Dean finally gets around to making eye contact. Laughs weakly. "Made a mess."

"No kidding," Roman says. "Might have to just throw these away."

"Just wash 'em off while they're still wet," Dean shrugs. "Use soap. Won't stain. Trust me."

"Guess you'd know."

"I would. Rome-"

"Dean, I-"

They both stop, and Dean chuckles again, an awkward sound that feels too big for the room. "Go ahead."

"I don't know what I was gonna say," Roman admits. He doesn't. He shakes his hair back off of his face, gathers it up at the back of his neck, lets it go. "What were you gonna say?"

"Fucked if I know," Dean says. "'S that...? Uh. We gonna just ignore this happened, too? No big deal? 'Cuz I know it was kinda sudden. I didn't plan that." He clears his throat. "Or is this, uh, is this you wantin' us to be, like, a thing? 'Cuz that would be okay, too. I'd be down for that. Whatever. You know?"

"A thing," Roman says slowly. "What do you mean?"

"Like a couple or whatever," Dean says, hesitation dragging the words out. "I'd be down for that. Pretty much are anyway, right? That's what everybody says, anyway."

"We're not like that, though," Roman says quickly.  It's almost a reflex at this point.  His heart does this funny jag when he says it, his pulse spiking.  He feels like somebody who's just woken up out of a deep sleep with the harsh lights of reality shining down on him.  They _had_ , and it was fine, but they shouldn't have.  This shouldn't have happened.  "Dean, we're not like that, man.  It never has been.  You know that."

The more he thinks about it, the more it feels like the right thing to say:

As much as he doesn't want to get left behind or leave Dean behind, them actually becoming a couple? Being _together_? Changing everything just because of what Seth said? If they did that, and they wound up falling apart the way he and Sasha did, he'd lose Dean anyway. They've been buddies - bros - for eight years, and that's the kind of thing he always imagines when he thinks about them hanging out years from now. _Friends_. Not an actual couple.

He's never wanted that with Dean.

( _Haven't you?_ )

Seth's wrong, anyway: if you care enough about somebody, about a friend, you'll make sure they're part of your life no matter what. That's what you do with friends. You figure out ways to keep them close. He and Dean can figure out how to stay in each other's orbits. They don't need to change everything, risk it all blowing up in their faces, risk losing each other completely when what they've got has always been great.

This friendship they've had for eight years, that's what always mattered.

The kissing stuff - it's been good.  It's been great, but it's making everything feel like it's spinning out of control.  Awkward.  Like things have shifted from where they were to a place he's not sure he likes.  The blowjob was good too, and he hadn't minded getting Dean off, but it wasn't something they needed to be doing.  They've never needed that.  They've managed to be close for eight years without sex and kissing and couple-talk getting in the way, and he's an idiot for letting himself get so carried away in it. 

It doesn't matter why he wanted it.  He doesn't  _need_ it.  They don't.

Things were perfect how they were before he let himself get stupid.

There's no need to change anything.  Better to leave them alone.  Not take the chance it'll blow apart.

Forget this happened.

So he tells himself, anyway.

On the bed, Dean's just watching him, unreadable.  "So forget it, then."

Roman pushes away from the wall and takes a breath. "I think we should just let it be one of those 'what happens in Vegas' deals.  I know things have been weird, but now we got it out of our systems. We can go home and get back to normal."

"Normal," Dean says, staring at something over Roman's shoulder. "What's that?"

"How we were before the Christmas party."

"Right." Dean shoves to his feet. "Okay. Before the Christmas party. Normal. Okay, but - fuck, fine." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Fine, but if it's not gonna be like that, it's not gonna be like that at all. Like, if this shit's stayin' here, it's stayin' here. All of it," he adds, giving Roman a pointed look. "Never happened, and it's not happenin' again."

There's something sharp in his tone when he says this, so Roman is careful when he replies, "It won't. It's over and done. For the best, you know? Things are great how they are, and it's - it's for the best."

"...uh-huh." Dean heads over to his bag and yanks some clothes out. A tee shirt - one of Roman's from college - falls out onto the floor. He frowns at it and stuffs it back in with the rest. "Well, look, I'm gonna get cleaned up and head down to the casino for a while. See if I can blow some more money. There's a bottle JD down there callin' my name."

"We're out of here early tomorrow," Roman says by way of protest. He doesn't want Dean to leave. "You gonna want to fly hungover?"

That earns him a curt look. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will, but-"

"But what? What's the problem?"

"That's what I was about to ask you." Roman pushes away from the wall, zipping his jeans so they don't fall down. "We okay? Because you sound a little pissed off over there."

"I am," Dean says, tossing his clean jeans over a shoulder. "At myself. Don't worry about it. We'll be fine." He makes his way across the room. "I'll be back later. See ya."

"Wait." Roman grabs Dean's arm to stop him. The violent way Dean jerks away actually takes Roman aback. "I'm sorry about all this. I know it's kind of a mess. Probably shouldn't have even done it. But, like I said, it's out of my system and things'll be back to normal when we get home."

"Happy for ya," Dean bites out. "Glad ya got it all out of _your_ system. I am over-fuckin'-joyed for _you,_ brotha. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a blackjack table waiting for me."

He bulls right past Roman, slamming the door on his way out.

Roman stands there staring after him for a long time, dirty jeans and come-stained shoes, regret a heavy weight in his gut.

And he wonders: if leaving all this confusing crap in Vegas is the right thing to do, then why the hell does it feel so much like he screwed up?

Why does he feel like such a complete asshole all of a sudden?

 _("I am over-fuckin'-joyed for_ you _, brotha_.")

* * *

_vi. or  
_

Dean never comes back to the room.

Sometime around three in the morning, Roman hears the door to the boom-boom room open and close.

He lies tense, ready to spring up to grab his headphones at the first sounds of anyone getting frisky.

What he hears instead, just barely audible, is sniffling. Like maybe Dean has a runny nose or something.

 _Or_.

Or.

It eventually stops, and things fall silent in the other room, but Roman doesn't get much sleep at all.

( _"Glad ya got it all out of_ your _system._ ")

Not at all.

_What an asshole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, Roman. What a mess. Can't promise a happy ending, but we're not done yet. Hang in there.


	6. Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, left kudos, and read this puppy. Much appreciated. Onward.

**Spin  
** **VI. Twist**

_i. the new normal_

The flight home is no more or less a hassle than the flight to Vegas had been.

It's just as silent, Dean going out of his way to not acknowledge Roman as they get seated - just like he's been doing all morning - and turning away to go to sleep as soon as he's buckled in. He leans on the window instead of on Roman, and doesn't stir the entire time.

Exhausted as he is himself from his complete failure sleep last night, Roman naps between pockets of turbulence, and spends what time he is awake staring at the back of the seat in front of him without seeing it.

They just need a little time, he guesses.

Let the dust on the last few days settle, give them a chance to get away from it.

The holidays will help: they have to be over at his mom's house tomorrow and on Christmas Eve to help get all the charity stuff ready. Christmas Eve afternoon, they'll deliver the toys, baskets, and cookies, and then there'll be dinner and church that night. Gifts and a late lunch/early dinner at his parent's house Christmas day itself. It'll be a busy three days, for sure, and with plenty to do, there won't be as much time to dwell on what happened in Vegas.

Last year had been a lot of fun: Dean and a handful of Roman's cousins had been conscripted to help frost cookies. Which, naturally, resulted in some frosting and sprinkles getting flung across the table, much to Mom's exasperation. But there was a lot of laughter, too, and everybody had fun. Even if the frosting was a little uneven here and there, they still got the job done in plenty of time.

Roman still has the picture of Dean sitting at the table with a glob of green icing hanging on the end of his nose like some giant booger, and all the kids around him laughing their asses off.

It's one of his favorites.

Getting back into the swing of things and doing the normal stuff they've always done, that should make all this other crap go away.

Hopefully.

Other than Roman asking if Dean wanted to stop and grab some burgers on the way home (he does), there's no talk at all on the way home. There's no talk at home, either, the pair of them dragging their bags into the entryway, and sitting down at the kitchen table to inhale lukewarm burgers and fries. Roman wants to talk, but Dean's all tight and pulled on himself like he always gets when he's not in the mood, so Roman instead sends out _We're home_ text messages to his family and scrolls Twitter to see what he missed. Not much, from the looks of things: Jey and Jimmy had posted more pictures from the Christmas party - including one where Uncle Afa appeared to have fallen into one of the Christmas trees - but that's about it.

"I gotta do laundry," Dean mutters at the table. "Bring your shit down when you get it unpacked."

"Okay," Roman says. "I should probably go to the store, too, at some point. We're out of everything. Want to come?"

Dean shakes his head. "Think I'm gonna get started wrappin' gifts and shit. Throw yours on the pile, if you want. Just tag who they're for. We still got paper in the closet, right?"

"Yeah, those jumbo rolls," Roman nods. "Remember? You got enough to wrap the whole house."

Of the two of them, surprisingly, Dean's the one who's actually gotten pretty good at wrapping presents. Once upon a time, he'd given Roman a couple CDs wrapped in crumpled brown paper and so much tape it was hard to even open it. Seemed kind of embarrassed about not knowing how to do it right, especially after Roman handed him a gift that his mom had wrapped up with a nice bow. The next year, Dean had helped Roman's mom wrap a bunch of stuff and learned how to actually do it right. Done it right ever since. Seems to like doing it. Roman's always let him.

"Guess I did, didn't I?" Dean says, finally glancing at Roman. He still looks tired. Sounds it, too. "I think we got plenty of bows and shit, too. But, hey, I need some shit from the store when you go, so y'wanna start a list?"

When Roman gets up to grab a notepad and a pen from the counter, a small swell of relief loosens a knot in his chest.

It's not much, but it's a start.

Kind of.

They split off to take care of everything, Roman venturing out to do a little late afternoon grocery shopping and Dean handling things at home. When Roman gets back, Dean's up sitting on the floor in the spare bedroom, piles of wrapped and unwrapped gifts on either side of him. He's got headphones on and doesn't look up when Roman passes by.

Later that evening, he makes a couple trips downstairs to set all the finished gifts under the little tree Roman had put up in the corner last week. He waves off Roman's offer to help, and heads right back to the spare bedroom when he's done, closing the door behind him.

The only time he leaves is to go rotate the laundry.

When Roman gets too tired to keep his eyes open, he turns everything off and arms the alarm. On his way to bed, he pauses by the spare room, and knocks.

"'S open," Dean calls.

Roman steps in, and finds Dean in bed already, stretched out under the covers with a book in hand, his headphones around his neck, blaring music.

Sounds a little like something by the Chili Peppers.

Fighting off an unexpected case of nerves, Roman says, "I'm headed to bed. Wanna come watch _Die Hard_?"

"No," Dean says without looking up from his page. "Good night."

"You're not coming to bed?" Roman asks.

Dean gestures at himself. "I am in bed."

"No, I mean..." Roman sighs. "Our bed."

"Your bed. That's your bed. This is mine." There's more color on the wall that in Dean's voice. "Good night."

"Thought we were gonna go back to normal," Roman says, but it's weak. He doesn't have the right to make any demands here, and he knows it. "That's what we said."

"That's what _you_ said." Dean sets his book aside and sits up, and looks at Roman - really looks - and Roman feels like squirming under the intensity of it. "That's what _you_ want. Not that you give a shit, but this-" he gestures at the room again "-is what _I_ want. My own space. This is what's gonna be normal now. So good night. Close the door on your way out."

"I don't give a shit?" Roman tries not to sound as stung as he feels. Fails. "What does that mean?"

"It means the only thing you've given a shit about the last few days is what _you_ want. You wanted to kiss me, so you did. You wanted to mess around last night, so you did. You just did it until you suddenly didn't want to anymore. Never even asked me if that's what I wanted. I didn't stop you, though, 'cuz I'm fuckin' stupid, but-"

"Hey, no, come on, man," Roman cuts in. "You're not stupid. I'm the one that screwed things up here. I just wish I knew how to fix it. What can I do?"

"Go to bed," Dean says in that same quiet, expressionless way. "Close the door on your way out."

"Just wanna know if we're gonna be okay," Roman says.

"Why wouldn't we be?" Dean picks up his book. "Nothing happened, right? Good night."

He goes back to reading, and Roman eventually takes the hint. He feels like he's aged about five years when closes the door behind him.

" _Never even asked me if that was what I wanted._ "

"Jesus," he mutters, slumping off for his own room. He hadn't. Not once. He'd been so caught up in all the want circling in his own head that it never even occurred to him to ask if Dean really wanted it. No, Dean hadn't stopped him, and yeah, Dean kissed back and was the one who suggested the blowjob last night, but it was still pretty selfish to just assume like that.

And here Roman's always thought he was a pretty considerate guy.

No wonder Dean's angry.

Roman wishes like hell he knew how to fix this.

He strips down for bed and crawls in, not bothering to turn on the TV. Spends a long time trying to get comfortable. He's not a small dude by any stretch of the imagination, but the bed feels huge to him. Like trying to sleep alone on a football field.

At some point, he grabs his phone off his nightstand to distract himself.

Ends up scrolling through his text messages.

The last one from Jey catches his eye. The video from the Christmas party.

 _Probably ought to delete it_ , he thinks, tapping it open.

He hits play instead, and watches himself dancing with Dean, that ridiculous Santa hat bobbing along and the two of them fitting together pretty damn well. They look good like that. And then the kiss. The one that started everything. It's a little hard to see it because the video was taken from so far away, but he can remember how it felt.

How all the kisses felt.

That blowjob last night.

How good it all was.

How even now there's a part of him that wishes he could do it again.

 _We're not like that_ , he reminds himself. They've never needed it. They don't need it. They don't need to be together to be close. They're fine how they are.

It's not like that.

Frustrated, he stops the video mid-kiss, fully intending to delete it and be done, but his finger hesitates over the delete button, and he can't make himself do it.

The video stays frozen on them wrapped around each other.

He looks at it for a long time.

They look good.

Real good.

* * *

_ii. not okay_

When Roman wakes in the morning, the very first thing he notices is he's got something stuck to his face, taped right onto the middle of his forehead.

At least it's not in any hair this time, he thinks, peeling it away.

There's just enough light in the room for him to make out Dean's half-assed scrawl: _Working a 24. -D_

That's all it says.

There's no 'see you later' or 'see you tomorrow' like there usually is on these kinds of notes. It's just _Working a 24. -D_.

A twenty-four he shouldn't even be _working_. They'd both gotten time off through the day after Christmas. It's only the twenty-third today. They're supposed to be on their way over to Roman's parents' house soon to help out. It's what they always do every damn year.

Roman wads the note up and throws it at the trash can in the corner. It misses and bounces to the floor. He glares at it. Then he sits up and scrubs the sleep out of his eyes, swipes loose hair out of his face. His phone's charging on the nightstand. He grabs it and unlocks it. There's a text from Seth that he ignores in favor of calling Dean.

He's half-expecting Dean not to answer, but after the second ring, Dean picks up with a calm, "Yeah?"

"We're supposed to be at my mom's in a couple hours," Roman says without preamble. "What do you mean you're working? You're supposed to be off until after Christmas."

"We're short-handed here," Dean says. "They won't be at your mom's. I got a twenty-four today, and then I'm off until the twenty-seventh. It's just one day. You can survive without me for that long. I'm sure everybody'll be glad I'm not there to start frosting fights, anyway."

"Bullshit," Roman protests. He flings the blankets off himself and gets out of bed. "They want you there. They're your family, too."

On the other end of the line, Dean clears his throat. "I'll see 'em tomorrow."

"You're damn right you will," Roman says. "I can't believe you right now, Dean."

"Fuck you." A snap of an answer like a bear trap closing around Roman's ankle. The sharpness of it takes Roman aback. "I just don't feel like being around anybody today, Rome. I'll see you and everybody else tomorrow, but I want a day. You owe me that much. I gotta go. I'm gettin' a call-out. I'll see you later."

He's gone before Roman even take a breath to say anything, the phone beeping in Roman's ear.

"Well, fuck you, too," Roman mutters at the dead air.

But he no sooner says that than his anger pops like a pin-pricked balloon. He sighs, and tosses his phone back onto the nightstand. It's his own fault things are a mess right now, and if Dean needs a day to himself to decompress, then Roman can't really say too much about it, can he? It's too late now, anyway: Dean's already eight and a half hours into his shift. He can't just up and leave.

So that's that.

Roman's left to get himself ready to head over to his parents' house alone.

Like sleeping alone, it doesn't feel right, but he does it anyway, and ventures out into a cool December morning.

* * *

_iii. home_

His parents still live in the same house they did when he was a kid.

They never saw the need to move.

It's a huge house, complete with its own private beach and no neighbors around for about a mile in any direction. Roman's spent almost every New Year's Eve on the beach, out in a little cove about a quarter-mile away from the house. Just him and Dean. They build a fire, drink beer, and sit in the sand to watch the fireworks over the water.

It's a tradition, one he hopes they'll continue this year.

Get back to normal.

What _is_ normal is that his mom greets him at the front door, sweeping him into a big hug and pressing a noisy kiss to his cheek. She's wearing a flour-dusty apron that smudges his shirt, but he doesn't care. Something about his mom's hugs still, even to this day, always manages to make him feel better. Today's no exception: maybe it's just that it's cloudy out or maybe it's just everything else, but he can't deny he has to work harder to get that smile out this morning. But it's nice to have his mom pull him in without hesitation, and sound happy when she says, "Well, hey, stranger."

"Hey, Mama," he says, kissing her cheek back and nudging his way into the foyer.

He doesn't miss the way she glances behind him, the little frown that chases away her smile when he closes the door behind himself. "Where's Dean?"

"Working," Roman says, trying to keep anything incriminating out of his voice. "Not gonna make it today."

"Oh?" Mom asks, giving him a careful look. "I thought he was off until after Christmas."

"They're short-handed, I guess." That reminds Roman he still hasn't checked Seth's text, but he puts that out of mind. Tries to shake off the funk. "You just get me today, but I'm gonna do the work of two people no sweat. I've missed you guys. Is everybody here? Where's Dad? I didn't see his truck in the driveway."

To her credit, his mom takes the hint and turns to lead Roman into the house. "He's off with your uncles getting the last of the toys for the drive. They'll be back this afternoon. You can help hem load the trailer after get them all wrapped. We've got Mount St. Christmas in the garage we need loaded up. "

She keeps talking on the way through the formal living room and deeper into the house, but Roman lets it wash past in favor of taking in all the Christmas decorations. Since the house is on the outskirts of town and about a mile away from anyone else, his parents don't bother with decorating with much outward decoration, but they go all out inside. The formal living room has a white pine tree in one corner, a winter scene on the coffee table, and gold garland wrapped around the windows. Nobody actually sits here, and hasn't in all the years his parents have lived in this house - they never did when Roman was a kid, either - but it still looks nice.

Past that, the smells of cinnamon and gingerbread and fresh-baked cookies waft to him, and voices carry through open doorways, both from the everyday living room and the kitchen. Laughter. Loud. Typical of his family. He thinks he recognizes Jimmy's voice among them. Definitely can pick out one of his aunts in there, too, and he doesn't have to work quite as hard for a smile.

The house is a riot of garland and lights around the windows and big and little trees and Christmas snow globes. Little snowpeople. Mistletoe in half the doorways. It's not gaudy like Las Vegas was, but there's no doubt what season it is.

It's always like this, though, and he likes it.

Just the way it should be.

"You look tired," Mom observes on the way into the kitchen. "Jet-lag, or did you party too much last night?"

"Guess it's jet-lag," Roman lies. "You got any coffee?"

"Of course," she tells him. She's just a bundle of energy, his mom, and he wishes he knew her secret.

The kitchen is crowded and hot, five other family members bustling around to mix cookie dough and cut out shapes with floured cutters. Roman takes a deep breath. "Smells good in here."

"Don't even think about it, Roman Joseph!" Mom cautions him the instant she sees him drifting toward the racks of cooling peanut butter cookies. "After tomorrow, you can have all you want, but these are for-"

"Giving away, I know, I know," he chuckles. "All right." He accepts the mug of fresh coffee Mom presses on him, and finds a clear spot of counter to lean against. "Hard at it already, huh?"

Mom pauses beside the island, wipes the flour off of her apron. "Every year. The kids'll be disappointed our chief decorator is missing."

"He thought you'd appreciate not having frosting fights this year."

"We were ready for that," Mom says, shaking her head. "Oh well. We're not doing quite as many cookies, anyway, because so many people from work donated. We have plenty. More than we probably need." Her smile firms. "You're on basket duty for right now. We're way behind there, so it's all hands on deck. Why don't you run along? We'll catch up about your trip over lunch. I'm having pizzas and sandwiches brought in around noon."

"Sounds good," Roman says, grateful for the out. It's hot as hell in here, and he'd just as soon not talk about Vegas right now, anyway.

He escapes the kitchen, waving at all his younger cousins in the dining room, who're spread out around the table with bags of icing and piles of cookies. There's plastic on the floor under them. Some on the walls, too.

In the main living room, he finds most of the adults - his sisters, cousins, and couple more of his aunt and uncles - all sitting in the middle of what looks like complete chaos on the floor. All the furniture has been pushed up against the walls. There are stacks of boxes everywhere. Green and red baskets piled everywhere, some with toiletries and others with baby supplies.

Roman's folded right into the fray, Jey's enthusiastic, "Hey-hey, uce!" pulling a grin out of him and dragging him right into the spirit of things.

His sister Vanessa, who's apparently in charge of everything day, bounds up to hug him, and then directs him to start unboxing the bundles of diapers and wet wipes. Which is about the time Roman gets what's happening: there two sets of assembly lines here: one for the toiletry baskets and one for the baby stuff. So it looks chaotic, but there's actually a method to it.

They have him and Jey trade off unboxing and stacking duty all morning, so Roman spends half his time running back and forth to the garage to either grab boxes of stuff or to carry out completed baskets, and the other half opening all the boxes. In between, he catches everybody up on his trip to Vegas - minus any of the personal shit between himself and Dean - and in turn gets caught up on what everybody has been up to. The best part about his family is that so many of them are talkers that Roman's never had to actually force himself to say things to fill awkward silences. His two sisters who are married talk about the kids and what they're doing. Jey and Jimmy talk about the trip to Hawaii they're planning in February - their last blast before they become fathers, both of them. And eventually, like they always do, they fall into reminiscing about past Christmases.

The one where Uncle Rodney dressed up as Santa and scared the bejesus out of everybody at three in the morning is still a favorite.

Somebody flips on some Christmas tunes, too, and it's all right.

It's normal.

Roman works and listens and laughs, and doesn't really think about anything.

* * *

_iv. kick in the ass_

His phone buzzes with a call just before lunchtime.

Seth.

Roman still hadn't read the text message, and considers ignoring the call, but he decides to err on the side of caution. He never knows. He sets his knife down, gets up, and connects the call, quickly exiting the living room. "What's up, Seth?"

"Hey, man," Seth says, easy and friendly. Roman's shoulders relax. "What's goin' on?"

"I'm at my parents' house," Roman answers, frowning. About the only quiet place he can find is the formal living room, so he heads there and takes a seat on the stiff sofa. "I'm helping them get all the-"

"Charity stuff ready, I know," Seth says. "I won't keep you. I can't, anyway. I'm covering dispatch right now. But, hey, so I'm wondering how come your wife is _here_ and not helping you _there_? I tried to ask him this morning, but, wow, is he crabby."

"Don't call him my wife."

"Your husband, then."

"That either. It's not like that, Seth, and it never was. You need to let that shit go."

"Whoa-ho," Seth says. "Easy there, Roman. I'm just joking around. Jesus. What a couple of crab-asses. Things not go well for you guys in Vegas, or what? That why I heard Dean asking Regal if we need anybody to cover tomorrow or Christmas?"

"He _what_?" Roman asks, sharp and loud. He feels like flipping over the coffee table.

One day is one thing, but to try to blow off the entire Christmas holiday? That's bullshit.

"Regal said no," Seth says quickly. "We got everything covered. Don't worry. He won't be working." He stops for a second. In the background, Roman can hear some kind of muffled conversation. When Seth comes back, it's with a quieter, "Must have been a bad fight, if he's wanting to skip Christmas. He's been talking about it for weeks."

"We didn't fight," Roman says. He blows out a sigh, and decides getting it out of his head might actually help. Seth's already in the loop anyway. "Something happened in Vegas that shouldn't have, that's all. Things are weird right now. We'll get past it. It's just gonna take a while."

"Something," Seth says. "Like sex something or some other kind of something?"

After a bit of hesitation Roman says, "We messed around. We'd been drinking and things just happened. Afterward it was one of those, 'Oh, man, I probably shouldn't have done that' deals."

"Was it bad or something? I don't need details, but-"

"My ass you don't," Roman says, huffing a laugh. "You'd want pictures."

Seth proves him right. " _Are_ there pictures?"

"No. Unlike you, I don't feel the need to point a camera at my junk. Neither does Dean." Once upon a time, Seth had 'accidentally' texted out nudes to the group chat Roman, Dean, and the rest of the gang were part of. Supposedly it was an accident, but from what Roman head Charlotte saying once, Seth has an exhibitionist streak.

Roman filed that one under _Things I don't need to know about my friends_ and tried to forget it.

Tried.

"There are no pictures," he concludes.

"Damn," Seth says. "No, but getting back to my question: was it bad?"

"It - no. It honestly wasn't bad at all. But it was still a mistake."

"Did he push you into it or something?"

"What? No. No, it was nothing like that." Roman's ears are burning. They're probably hot enough to boil water on. it's probably a good thing they're on the phone, or he might have walked away by now. "I wanted to. At the time. But afterward, it just hit me we've never been like that. You know? Dean, he wanted to know if it meant we were gonna be a thing, and I told him no. Like I said, it's not like that."

"Wait wait wait wait wait," Seth says. "Hang on a minute. _He_ said he wanted it to be a thing?"

Suddenly Roman regrets everything about the last five minutes. "He brought it up, yeah."

"And you said no."

"We don't need to change things to stay close. We'll find a way, even if we're with other people. Besides that, say it _did_ get to be like that, and it didn't work out. Then what? This friendship we've had for years is just done?"

"Why wouldn't it work out? He's pretty much the closest thing you can get to a sure bet."

Seth says that like it's the most obvious thing in the world, but it gives Roman a strange little jolt. _A sure bet_.

"Is that why?" Seth goes on suddenly. "Because you'd feel like you were settling for something if you got with him? Like maybe you'd always think you could've done better that him? The wife and kids and stuff your mom was always telling you about? You'd feel like you were missing out?"

Roman bristles. That's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. "Don't put him down like that, Seth. It wouldn't be _settling_ for anything. I know he's a handful, but he's a damn good guy. Besides that," he adds without thinking about it, "who says I couldn't have kids with him if I wanted to?"

He hears a quiet inhale from the doorway and snaps a sharp look up at his mother, who's standing in the archway between the living room and the hall, watching him with a hand over her mouth. And he freezes up when what he'd just said hits him.

 _...oh_.

 _Oh_.

On the other end of the line, Seth chuckles. "But it's not like that, right? Not at all."

"I gotta go," Roman says. His mouth is a little dry when he hangs up on Seth's laughter. "It's not - uh, that wasn't what you think."

Mom, who'd taken off her apron and changed her shirt, shuffles a step into the room, hand falling away from her mouth. "No?"

He rubs his eyes, and pockets his phone. "No. Seth was just... He was just being Seth." Hopefully Dean's revenge for the book will include something lingering and painful. "Don't worry about it."

"I am, though," she says, making her way over to the couch and sitting down beside him. "I won't pry, though. It's your life and your business, but if there's anything you want to tell me, I'm all ears."

Roman just looks at her. There's more gray in his hair than he remembers, and she looks a little tired. Finally he says, "There's nothing to tell. Seth is just - he's always trying push me and Dean together. Can't keep his big nose out of things. Always saying we're a couple. Calls Dean my wife. Got me some books about Vegas weddings, too. He doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. There's nothing going on between me and Dean."

"Dean and me," she corrects him with an absent little smile. "Like I said, I won't pry. I just want you to be happy. You've grown into such a good man yourself, and you deserve all the happiness you can get. Whether it's with him or someone else, or you decide to just fly solo for a while, as long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

" _Thank_ you," he says, relieved and touched. He sits back on the couch there and looks up at the ceiling. "I don't know, Mom. I don't think I want things changing, but maybe they are anyway."

_But it's not like that, right?_

_Right?_

"Is that a bad thing?" Mom asks, patting his leg. "I know change can be hard, but sometimes it can lead to better things."

"But if you already got a good thing to begin with, why change it? Why risk ruining it if it doesn't work out?"

"I suppose that's the question. Have you talked to him about this?"

Roman shakes his head. "Not this."

"Don't you think you should? How does he feel about it? Not to tell you your business, but shouldn't he have a say in things? It affects him, too."

Which - true. Goes right back to what Dean said last night about everything being what Roman himself had wanted. He rubs his eyes. "You're probably right. He's already mad at me about not thinking about that. What he wants. I just don't know what to say. I don't even know what I want. I thought leaving what happened in Vegas in Vegas would be for the best, but now I don't know. Why is this so damn complicated?"

"I think you're making it more complicated than you need to," Mom says. "You always have. You always have to take the long way around. Hard-headed. What does your heart tell you? How do you feel about him? How does he feel? If there's something there, why wouldn't you want to take a chance on being happy together? If there's not, and you want things to stay the same, that's okay, too. I think you just need to talk to him. Tell him what you just told me. But talk to him."

"Right."

"What _did_ happen in Vegas? Do I want to know?"

"No," Roman says, and thank God the doorbell rings right as he says this. Telling Seth is one thing, but there's no way in hell he's telling his mother. The thought makes him shudder. "No, you do not."

"All right," she says, rising. "Well, that's enough of that, then. Help me carry the food in."

"Yes'm," Roman says. "Good thing it's here. I'm starving."

Mom laughs. "And Water is wet. Speaking of food, you'll have to tell me about what you boys ate in Vegas."

Roman laughs himself, and gets to his feet. "I could have met the president or somebody famous in Vegas, and all you would want to know is 'What did you have for dinner'?"

"It's all about priorities," she says primly.

"Right," he snorts, following her out of the living room. "Thanks, Mom."

"Anytime."

* * *

 _v._ _revelation_

It's a tired Roman who leaves his parents' house later that evening.

He's the good kind of tired, though: he'd spent most of the afternoon loading gift-wrapped toys into a trailer with Jey and Jimmy, while Dad and Roman's uncles packed all the completed baskets into boxes. Not everything had gotten done, but they got a hell of a lot more accomplished this year than they had last year. Vanessa told everybody over dinner she thought they needed maybe three more hours to get all the baskets done, and Mom said most of the cookies were ready to go. Last year, they'd only been about halfway finished at this point, and it had been an all-hands-on-deck scramble to finish by noon on Christmas Eve.

Tomorrow won't be that bad, probably.

Nothing like a day of family and good hard work - and a few stolen cookies - to help keep his mind off of things.

Once he's back on the couch at the townhouse, and the quiet sinks in, he can't help but start thinking again.

Not even the TV blaring a movie helps drown it out.

As a kid, his father taught him that if something wasn't broken, don't fix it. There's no need. He's had a good friend in Dean for the last eight years, someone who's been there for every big moment and failure and all the boring parts in between. They've had their share of fights, but they've had probably a hundred times more laughs than that. Dean's fondness for embarrassing Roman as much as humanly possible has touched off both many times.

If things stayed the same, he's pretty sure he could be happy.

In those rare instances he did think about having a family, he always pictured a wife and kids, a nice house with a little stretch of beach, dogs. Uncle Dean would come around often to hang out and goof around. If the kids played sports, Dean would probably be that guy getting a little too worked up over the refs' bad calls and Roman would be there trying to keep him calm. There'd be plenty of room for Dean.

But there'd be parts of their lives that wouldn't overlap anymore, he realizes.

No more vacations alone together. Roman would probably go with his family, and Dean would either go places alone or with whoever he ended up with. No more waking up in the same bed together. Watching movies until they both fell asleep. No more laying his head in Dean's lap to complain about work. Not going to Riley's with the gang together.

He'd miss that.

They'd still be close, he's sure, but there'd be parts of it that were gone for good.

But:

" _Why wouldn't you want to take a chance on being happy together_?"

Together.

Could they?

No worry about finding other people. Maybe raising a family together, if they wanted. Not having to let Dean go, or lose out on time together.

" _I'd be down for that_."

That's what Dean had said, wasn't it?

Them together.

Roman had blown right past that in his hurry to shut everything down in Vegas, but Dean had come out and said he wanted them to be a thing. Dean. Mr. I-Don't-Date-Ever had _said_ -

(" _You know I love you, right_?")

-that he wanted to...

 _...oh_.

In the dark townhouse, Roman sits up straight like he's just been zapped with a taser.

_Oh._

No wonder Dean pushed him away so hard last night. He'd-

Of course Roman's phone would choose that moment to go off. It buzzes on the table, snapping him out of his reverie. He blinks at it before he grabs it off the table and squints at the Caller ID.

Seth again.

It's only a little after seven, so it's not exactly a strange hour to be calling, but even so, Roman finds he's really not in the mood for more of Seth's nosiness. So, he connects the call and says, "Really don't want to talk right now, Seth. I'm in the middle of something."

"Roman," Seth says. "Listen-"

"I'm serious," Roman cuts him off. "I'll call you back after the holidays."

" _Roman_!" Seth snaps. "Shut up and listen." There's something strained in his voice. Roman's blood goes cold. "Look, don't panic, but you need to come down to Sacred Heart."

The hospital. Every single thought in Roman's brain flees. "...why?"

"Your wife decided to play hero," Seth says. "There was a call-out at a crash scene. Some bystander's kid wandered into the intersection. He saw her and went to grab her. Got clipped by a car. I don't know how bad it is yet, but I do know he's alive and kicking. I don't think he's in any danger. So don't panic. I should know more by the time you get here."

 _He's hurt. Dean's hurt. He's hurt. Dean's hurt_. The words pulse and throb in Roman's head in time with his heartbeat. Roman doesn't even know when he stood up, but suddenly he is, twisting around to look for his shoes. "You don't think," he bites out, "or you _know_? Seth-"

"Don't panic," Seth says for about the third time. "Look, do you need me to come get you?"

"No!" Roman snaps. He finally locates his shoes and his keys. "You stay there. The minute you know something, you call me if I'm not there."

 _He's hurt. Dean's hurt. He's hurt. Dean's hurt_.

_What the hell what the hell what the hell._

"I will, but like I said, I don't think he's in any danger, so just calm down. Be careful. Don't be all crazy when you drive over. We don't need you getting into an accident."

"Right, okay," Roman says, jamming his feet into his shoes. And then, for no good reason, he blurts, "I think he's in love with me, Seth. I didn't see it. He practically told me that in Las Vegas, and I didn't see it. But I think he is."

There's a pause, and then Seth says, quietly, "Rome, buddy, congratulations for finally finding a clue. I know. Everybody knows. Just get here, would ya?"

"I'm on my way," Roman says, pulling the door open. "Just tell me he's gonna be okay."

"It's Dean," Seth says with a tight little laugh. "Guy who says he, Twinkies, and cockroaches can survive a nuclear blast. Mr. Survivor. I'm sure he'll be okay."

"Yeah," Roman says, and on his way down to his car, he prays that's true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Yeah. Sorry. Maybe a tad cliche, but this was always the direction it was headed. The next chapter is the last one. I won't keep you waiting too long.


	7. "You're a mean one..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter m'friends. Long one, but we got there. Thank you to everyone who's supported this little endeavor along the way. We'll see you in the next one.

**Spin  
** **VII. "You're a mean one..."**

_i. limbo_

Roman doesn't even remember the drive to the hospital.

It's a blur of run red lights and horns and middle fingers he deserves. And Dean. Mostly Dean.

 _He's hurt. Dean is hurt_.

Somehow he parks his car in one of the few empty spots in the ER lot and the next thing he knows, he's blowing through the automatic sliding doors and walking right past the guy at the security desk. It's a big hospital, but Roman's been to the ER here before, so he knows to hook left as soon as he's inside and head through the doors with the _Emergency_ sign over them.

To the right is the admissions desk, and past that to the left is the waiting area.

In the waiting area, he spots Seth first: a well-built dark-haired dude wearing the same collared blue shirt and black cargo pants Dean always wears himself to work. He's sitting with an older dude, big with shaggy blond hair and the look of an exhausted high school principal. Roman recognizes him right away as Dean's supervisor, William Regal. There are other people around - a couple with a small child sleeping on their lap, a sniffling old man with his wife, and some others huddled together at the back - but Roman doesn't pay attention to any of them on his way over to Seth and Regal.

Seth leaps to his feet the instant he spots Roman. "Hey," he says.

"How is he?" Roman demands, not even bothering to keep his voice down. The person sitting at the admissions desk gives him a dirty look, but he ignores her, too, and focuses on Seth. Just Seth.

"We're still waiting to hear anything," Seth answers, words quick and frustration-clipped. He joins Roman at the waiting room's entrance. "All i know is they're running some tests on him, and as soon as they bring him back down to the room, they'll let us know what's going on."

"What kind of tests?" Roman asks. Barks. He doesn't care if he's being rude or not.

"They didn't say," Seth answers. "They were wanting to wait until his emergency contact - you - got here. Now you're here, and maybe we'll get some damn answers."

Roman's blood pressure spikes. He can feel his eyes pulsing. He's standing in the middle of an ER waiting room and he's never felt so helpless. "Did they at least say if he was okay or not?"

"He's awake." Seth reaches over to squeeze Roman's arm. It hurts. It's the same spot Roman whacked getting out of the car just now. "That much I know. He's awake and apparently he's aware. I just don't know anything besides that."

"What the hell happened?" Roman asks, and he still doesn't care that he's being loud or that there are other people here waiting. Dean's hurt. He's _hurt_. And right now not a damn thing is okay.

It's not Seth who answers, but someone else. A quiet voice from one of the chairs says, "He saved our little girl." When Roman turns to locate it, he finds himself looking over at the couple with the little girl. She's tiny, brown-haired, and wearing a white-striped red Christmas dress, and curled up in the man's lap. There's a bandage on one of her hands. The man who's holding her is a doughy-looking lump of a dude with owlish eyes and no chin to speak of. He looks like he wants to cry. The woman beside him - who'd spoken - is tall and brown-haired herself, pretty and direct.

"We had to stop because of the accident. Molly," she says, indicating the little girl, "ran out into the street. I swear I only looked away for like a second, and then she was gone. He - Dean - he ran out to grab her. There was a car. It couldn't stop in time. He yanked Molly out of the way, but the car hit him. I'm so sorry. Is he...? I thought I heard...Seth? It was Seth, right? I thought I heard Seth call him your wife? Are you married?"

"Husband," Roman corrects her. "No, but we might as well be." He swings around to look at Seth again. "How bad was it? Anybody actually see it?"

"The car was stopping," the little girl's dad volunteers in a timid voice. "It didn't run him over, but it sent him up the air over the hood. He hit the ground pretty hard. But he was awake when they took him away."

"Like I said," Seth says, "I don't think he's in any danger."

From the chair beside the one Seth had jumped out of, William Regal lifts his chin and says, "Let's not speculate. We'll find out soon enough." He's British, and Roman hears it in his voice. Hears fatigue, too. "Roman, it's good to see you again. I'm sorry it's under these circumstances."

"Yeah," Roman mutters. He doesn't know Regal well, but Regal's always been pretty good to Dean over the years. Mentor and father figure rolled into one, although Dean'll never admit it. "Yeah, thanks."

"Hey, come sit down," Seth says, guiding Roman over to an empty set of chairs in a corner away from the others. Which isn't saying much. Roman's seen waiting areas in doctors' offices that are bigger than this. It's closed-in and tight, with chairs that feel a size too small and walls too close together. What windows there are are high up and don't offer any kind of view.

The chair's padding sighs under Roman's ass when he sits down. He leans forward, rubs his eyes. Stares at sterile white tile. "I hate hospitals."

"Who doesn't," Seth says. He sounds as tired as Regal had. He's probably been at work since midnight, too. It's almost eight p.m. That makes for a long-ass day. "You okay?"

"I will be when I know something."

"Yeah. I didn't know if you wanted me to call anybody else down yet. I didn't think you'd want a bunch of people around."

"I don't."

"Maybe it won't even be that bad. If he was awake when they brought him in and they're just running some tests right now, that could be a good sign. They're bringing him back to his room. That means they didn't have to rush him off for emergency surgery. I won't guess what's gonna happen, but at least you'll get to see him soon."

"That's true."

Seth leans forward the same way Roman is, hands laced together in front of him like he's about to pray. But he doesn't. Unlike Roman and even Dean, Seth's an atheist. He lowers his voice so it just floats in the gap between them. "So you figured it out, huh?"

Roman glances over, frowning. "What?"

"That Dean's in love with you."

"You knew." It's not a question.

"Everybody knew."

"I didn't know."

"Everybody except you knew, then."

"Nobody told me," Roman says. He doesn't want to talk about this, but if it'll get his mind off the way he swears he can hear a clock somewhere tick-tick-ticking away, he'll take it. "Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Believe me, we wanted to," Seth says, his normally-nasal and annoying voice mellowed out with what Roman can only assume is regret. "It was kinda painful to watch sometimes. But we really did think it wasn't like that with you guys, and that we shouldn't stick our noses into it. I know it kinda looks like I did, but I swear to God I was just joking around. I assumed - we all did - that you were straight, and you just weren't into him that way. He knew that, too. We all saw you checking out women at the bar. Sometimes you just gotta leave well enough alone, you know?"

"Huh." Roman can't decide if he wants to laugh or punch something. _Painful_. "I didn't have a clue."

"Question I have is how are _you_ feeling?"

"I don't know, man. It's a lot. Until a few days ago, it _wasn't_ like that. Then all this happened, and I now don't know a damn thing. It's a hell of a lot. I just want him to be all right."

"Yeah, I guess maybe it is a lot," Seth says. Sympathy is a strange thing to hear out of him. "Especially if you didn't know."

"How long has everybody known?" Roman asks.

"A while," Seth says.

"Did he tell you?"

"We asked. One night, it was just him, me, Antonio, and Nattie. I don't know where you were. But Nattie, you know how she gets when she's had a few too many. She just came right out and asked him. He didn't really answer, but he didn't have to. We could tell he was. But we didn't say anything, like I said, because we knew it wasn't like that." Seth clears his throat. "So now you know. Gonna do anything about it?"

"I don't know," Roman says again. A door opens down the hall and he watches a nurse rolling a patient away from them, down through another set of doors. "Really don't want to talk about it anymore, though. Like I said, I just want to make sure he's all right."

"I gotcha," Seth says.

Things fall quiet.

Seth gets up to go join Regal again, leaving Roman alone to stare pensively at the doors that lead back into the ER itself. Time stretches out and slows to a crawl. He swears half an hour passes, only to find it's seven minutes. There's nothing to distract him, either. He doesn't feel like talking to anyone.

It feels like an entire Ice Age has time to pass before the ER doors open and a small nurse in blue scrubs walks through, her shoes squeaking over the tile. She approaches the waiting area and scans the room until she finds Seth. "You're with Dean Ambrose, right? Is one of these people here Roman, by chance?"

Roman gets up. "Me. That's me. I'm Roman. How is he?"

"We've got him back in the room," she says. "He was asking if you were here. I told him I'd come get you. He's doing great. We're still waiting on test results, so I can't tell you anything specific yet, but he's awake and asking for you. You can come wait with him."

"Can the rest of us come back and see him?" the little girl's father asks. "I'd sure like to thank him for what he did for my Molly."

"We'll leave that up to him," the nurse answers. "We don't want too many people in the room at once, but if he's up for visitors, there's no reason you couldn't come back for a few minutes. Just maybe do it in groups of two or three. That way you're not crowding the room."

"We'll let Roman go back first," Seth says. "He's the one Dean wants to see right now, anyway."

Roman, on his way to join the nurse, says, "I'll ask him. I'll let you know here in a minute."

"All right, thanks," Seth says, waving him off.

"This way," the nurse says to Roman, leading him to through a set of double doors. "I'm Kelly."

"Kelly," Roman repeats to himself. He doesn't know why. He'll forget it in five minutes. "How is he?"

Kelly hooks right and heads down a long hallway. "He's pretty banged up. His elbows, hands, and face are all scraped up, but they look worse than they are. It's all pretty superficial. His shoulder was dislocated. That much I can tell you. We popped it back in and we've got his arm temporarily immobilized in a sling. We have him on painkillers. Other than that, we really haven't done much of anything. We're waiting on tests results." She pauses, finally, beside a door about halfway down the hall. "He's in here. I'll go grab the doc, and have him come tell you what we're waiting for."

"Okay," Roman says, swallowing.

* * *

_ii. hobo bigfoots_

His heart's jackhammering right behind his damn tongue when he walks into that room. It's the longest five steps he's ever taken in his life, past a blank stub of a wall, and then...

 _There_.

On the bed in the middle of a daylight-bright room is Dean, propped up and watching something on the TV that's been bolted to the opposite wall. He's in a hospital gown, legs tucked under a blanket. It's quiet. There's no beeping from any machines - just steady numbers on an electronic display, and Dean wired into it. An IV tree stands near his shoulder - the good one. It's his left arm in a sling, and Roman doesn't find that surprising: five years ago, Dean had dislocated that same shoulder. Every now and again, it pops out on him.

He's got a rash of scrapes on his cheek, right over his cheekbone and a more on the side of his forehead, but none that look all that deep. It's more like road rash. Really, though, other than that, and other than him being wired in and drip-fed from an IV, he doesn't look that bad. Normal color in his face and doesn't seem to be in any pain.

The eyes that turn to find Roman's are a little glassy, and there's something kind of drug-dopey about the smile that appears. "Heyyy, Rome."

It feels like an elephant steps off of Roman's chest, and the breath he takes before he smiles back is the best one he's taken in days. "Hey," he says, making his way in. "Heard you got into a fight with a car."

"Mm-hmm. 'N I won."

"Really. That why you're here giving me a damn heart attack?"

"'S a little girl," Dean says, sobering. "I had to."

Roman stops beside the bed and reaches down to cover Dean's good hand on the rail. "I know you did. Done good, Ambrose. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a car," Dean says, deadpan. "Nah, 'm okay. I got drugs. Good shit. Not feelin' much. 'S the little girl okay? Anybody say?"

"They didn't tell you?" Roman asks. "She's fine. She's with her parents in the waiting room right now. Mom and Dad wanted to come say thank you for what you did. Maybe after the doctor's done filling me in on what kind of shape you're in, they can come in?"

"Sure," Dean says. "Yeah. 'S good. Glad she's okay."

"Hopefully you will be, too."

Dean smiles again, soft and dimpled, and says, "'M always okay. 'Member? Twinkies, cockroaches, 'n me - we're gonna survive a nuclear blast. Gonna take more 'n gettin' hit to get rid of me."

"Idiot," Roman says, smiling back again. "I swear to God, you're trying to shorten my lifespan."

Whatever Dean had been about to say goes unsaid because there's quick knock at the door, and then two sets of quick footsteps squeaking over the tile. Roman glances over a shoulder at the nurse who'd brought him back here, and a youngish doctor with red hair and a matching beard.

"Hi there," the doctor says. "I'm Dr. Zayn. And you're Roman?"

"Right," Roman nods.

Dr. Zayn breaks out into a bright smile. "Great. Good to meet you. So! Let's start with the good news: no internal injuries we could find, no real head trauma, and his vitals have looked great since he got here. Bad news is a dislocated shoulder, and some possible broken bones in his left arm and wrist. We grabbed some shots of his legs at the impact site, too, just to be on the safe side. He's pretty swollen already. It could just be from the impact itself, but better safe than sorry. We should have the results back from Radiology here in the next forty-five minutes or so."

"So he's gonna be okay?" Roman asks, holding his breath.

"Oh absolutely," Dr. Zayn answers, bright and enthusiastic. "Absolutely. Well. Recovery time will depend on the severity of the injuries, obviously. But yes, he's got nice long life ahead of him. Assuming he doesn't have to play hero again."

A second elephant steps off of Roman's chest.

_A nice long life ahead of him._

Seven of the best words he's ever heard.

"Doc," Dean says suddenly, sitting up a little straighter. "Hey, Doc, like... What about in the Northwest? Like up in Washington? There's lotsa places there nobody's been. The mountains 'n shit. 'S where I'd go lookin."

"That very well could be," Dr. Zayn says without missing a beat. He joins Roman at the bed, earnest and still smiling. "Places where nobody really goes would be the best to hide. There's places in Canada like that. There was a sighting in Eastern Canada that I know of."

"Canada?" Dean hums. "Wait, but wouldn't that be the Eh-bominable Snowman?"

Dr. Zayn snorts. "Very funny. I'm originally from Canada, I'll have you know. But - how do you know they're not the same thing? Maybe Bigfoot is a snowbird. Stays in Canada in the summer and comes down here during the winter. Maybe he's a dual citizen like me."

Roman looks back and forth at the pair in complete disbelief. Dean's laying here in a hospital bed all banged up, and they're talking _Bigfoot_? Meanwhile, Dean's thoughtful. "Could be," he says. "I never thought 'bout that, but that could be that's why nobody can ever find 'im. Always on the move. Y'know? 'Course, kinda begs the question how he'd get that far. Oh! Oh! What if he rides in train cars like some hobo?"

"Or maybe in the back of a semi," Dr. Zayn says.

"True, but I like hobo Bigfoot better," Dean says through a yawn. "Got like a harmonica 'n one of those, like, sticks with the bag tied on 'em. Wonder what one of them would carry." His lips twitch into another smile. "We should go hunting one of these days."

Dr. Zayn bounces on his heels kind of like Dean does when he's excited. Roman doesn't know whether to be jealous or amused. "That would be _great._ I've always wanted to go do something like that. I've been to Loch Ness, but that was pretty much just a tourist trap. Like a real monster hunt with camping and everything? That would be so cool."

Amused it is, then. Roman laughs. Especially at Dean's enthusiastic, "Yeah, man, totally. You should meet m'friends Finn 'n Bayley. They love that stuff, too. Bet they'd love to get in on it."

"Sounds cool," Dr. Zayn says. "We can talk here in a bit. I gotta get back to my rounds. Roman," he adds, "it was nice to meet you. I'll see you guys in a bit."

"Sure thing," Roman says. As soon as Dr. Zayn's bounded out of the room, Roman looks at Dean with raised eyebrows and says, "Hobo Bigfoot?"

"It could be a thing," Dean insists. "Like, how else could Bigfoot cross long distances? I can't see one of 'em gettin' past TSA at an airport or even gettin' on a Greyhound. I think people would notice."

"Bigfoot has big feet, right?" Roman says. "Probably could walk."

"You got big feet, too." Dean's eyelids look like they're getting a little heavy, the words rolling a little slow and lazy. There's a sparkle in his eyes, though. "Could you walk from, like, Washington to eastern Canada? Well. I mean, you _could_ , but why would you when you could just hitch a ride in a train car? It makes perfect sense."

"I guess so," Roman allows, warm all over and damn glad Dean's okay, and yeah, yeah, if he could he'd probably kiss Dean right now because it just feels like it's one of those right times. Dean's a dumb-ass, but he's the kind of dumb-ass who throws himself in front of a car to save a kid and then makes stupid puns about Canadian Bigfoots from his hospital bed, and good _lord_ , Roman loves him.

He does.

He really does.

His expression must change, because Dean frowns. "'S up? You okay?"

When Roman opens his mouth, he's not sure what's going to come out. "Yeah," is what does. "I'm just glad you're all right, man. Nobody knew anything when I got here. When I got that call..."

Dean slides his hand out from under Roman's, but only so he can stack it right back on top. "Sorry. Told 'em to lemme call you, but they were all blah blah blah tests and internal injuries, and _you need to sit still_. I'm like _I'm fine_. Mean, I'm sore as shit, but I'm okay. Wanted to call you m'self, but they wouldn't let me. Jerks." He squeezes Roman's hand. 'M okay, Rome. Sorry I scared you. But I had to, you know? If that car hit her..."

"I know," Roman says. He does. "You did good. Are you - is it hurting now?"

"Not really. I'll be all right for a while. Gettin' kinda tired, though. Wanna go grab everybody? Dunno how much longer I'm gonna be good company."

"You're never good company, babe," Roman says. It's habit.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off," Dean says, lifting his hand off of Roman's long enough to fly a middle finger.

There's a part of Roman that wants to hang around and maybe try to talk about...things, but it doesn't quite feel like the right time, so with one last little smile he heads off to go grab everybody from the lobby.

_Not yet._

But soon.

 _Soon_.

* * *

_iii. them's the breaks..._

While Dean's busy assuring the grateful parents of the little girl he's fine, Roman stands out in the hall outside the room with Seth and Regal, and relays what he knows to them. Both of them seem relieved to hear that a few broken bones might be the worst of of Dean's injuries. And Roman privately agrees: broken bones are still a big deal, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

A lot worse.

"So he'll have to be put on leave," Regal says, watching a nurse wheel a patient on by them. "Honestly, that's probably for the best. He could do with the time away, anyway. It ought to give him a chance to decide what he wants to do next."

Roman can't hide his surprise. "You know he's thinking about leaving?"

"Everyone always is," Regal says. He's got cold, serpentine eyes, Regal does, but they warm when he smiles. "Few people choose to be an EMT as a career. It's usually the first step to something else. He mentioned firefighting or joining the police force. I think he'd do fine either way."

"I think he really wants to be a cop," Roman admits, glancing at Seth, "but, man, I don't know about that one. Think I'd rather see him join the fire department. His life, though. I can't really tell him what to do."

"Who can?" Regal wonders aloud, and the three of them share a look and a laugh.

Little Molly and her parents don't stay long, scurrying off past Roman, Regal, and Seth with hasty wavies and a quick, "Merry Christmas! Thanks again for everything!"

As soon as they're gone, Roman leads Seth and Regal into the room. He pulls out his cell phone and retreats to the back of the room, leaving Seth and Regal to flank the bed and talk to Dean for a bit. Roman figures he probably ought to let his family know what's going on so they won't be surprised if he can't make it to Christmas Eve tomorrow.

He just sends out a group text to everybody because it's faster than making half a dozen phone calls.

Doesn't surprise him much that Mom's the first person to text back, wanting to know if she and Dad should come down. Roman, noticing that Dean's starting to look pale and tired - adrenaline probably wearing off - texts back that it's not necessary just yet.

For the next ten or so minutes, his phone buzzes nonstop with concern and well wishes from what seems like his entire damn family, and Roman can't help smiling about that. They're good people, all of them, and he's always loved the way they seemed to just accept Dean into the family like it was no big deal. Tends to be like that with everyone's boyfriends and girlfriends, assuming those boyfriends and girlfriends aren't assholes, but he's never seen that with someone who's just a friend.

He wonders if anything would change with them if things were to change between himself and Dean.

Somehow he doubts it.

Funny how that _if_ is starting to feel more like a _when_.

 _When_ things change, because maybe Mom's right: why wouldn't he want to give being happy with Dean a shot? A chance to be with somebody he loves? There's a lot to lose no matter what they do. Whether they're just friends or more than that, anything could happen and blow things apart.

So maybe he needs to stop being an idiot and grab onto what he's got while he still can.

"What are you smiling about over there?" Seth asks suddenly.

Roman blinks, realizing he'd been caught staring at Dean. "Just - uh, these texts from the family." He holds up his phone. "They all say they're real proud of you and get well soon. They wanted to come down and see you, but I told them to hold off."

Dean's cheeks flush like he's embarrassed or something, but before he can answer, somebody knocks on the door, quick and sharp. Dr. Zayn bounces into the room in his lab coat and scrubs. He kind of reminds Roman of Tigger, as energetic as he is. An exasperated nurse follows right behind him, carrying a file.

Dr. Zayn pauses just inside the room and looks at everybody. "Oh, hey, gang's all here," he says. "Who've we got?"

"M'boss William Regal 'n my coworker Seth Rollins," Dean answers for himself. "What've _you_ got, Doc?"

"Test results," Dr. Zayn says. "Am I good to tell everybody, or...?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

"Well, the good news," Dr. Zayn says, approaching the bed, "is that you don't have a single broken bone in your body."

"None at all?" Dean asks, giving Roman a surprised look. Roman mentally fist-pumps. "Seriously?"

"None," Dr. Zayn affirms. "But there's bad news. That's a couple of bad sprains and a shoulder you might need to get surgery on. _Might_. I'm going to recommend you see a specialist about it sometime after the new year. I couldn't really see any ligament tearing, but it felt awfully sloppy when I popped it back in. Could just be your ligaments got stretched or are naturally lose, but I'd definitely recommend following up on it. If you don't, that's probably going to keep popping out on you."

"'S done it before," Dean admits. "I fell on it when I was a kid."

"Then, yeah, I'd definitely recommend you follow up on it."

"He will," Roman says. He'll see to it himself, if he has to. "What's sprained, Doc?"

"Wrist and elbow on that left arm," Dr. Zayn says. "Again, bad-news good news. Bad news is a lot of soft-tissue swelling. Good news is, it's _just_ soft-tissue swelling, as far as I could see. No other damage. Which means given rest, ice, and time, they should heal on their own with minimal complications. It may take a bit longer just because it's your entire arm that's hurt there, but, like I said, given enough time and, when you're ready, some strengthening exercises, you'll be completely fine. You ready for the best news of all?"

"'S that?" Dean croaks.

"We don't need to admit you, so as soon as we get your arm sorted out, you can go home."

Dean visibly perks up at that. "Nice."

"Yeah, in the absence of internal injuries, broken bones, or head trauma, there's no need to keep you. You are a very lucky guy." Dr. Zayn smiles. "I'll have them get you braces for your elbow and wrist, and then we'll show you how to wrap your shoulder. Or - actually, do you have anyone who lives with you who can do it for you? It'll be easier."

"Me," Roman says. "Just tell me what I need to do."

On the bed, Dean huffs. Roman ignores him. He also ignores the way Seth grins. Dr. Zayn, apparently oblivious to all this, says, "Great. That's good. So, yeah." He pats Dean's foot. "You'll be ready to get out Bigfoot hunting before you know it."

"Hell yeah," Dean says. "How long 's it gonna be before I can get back to work?"

"Depends on what you decide to do about your shoulder. If you don't do anything, then I'd say around eight to ten weeks, maybe? Your wrist and elbow should be fine in about six, but your shoulder - the problem is, you lift people. You don't want to rush back and take the chance you hurt yourself again."

"Hell'm I supposed to do for two months?" Dean grouses.

"Rest, for one," Regal says, giving Dean the sternest look Roman's ever seen Principals would be jealous. "When you're cleared for light duty, you can come back and we'll put you to work. We'll have more than enough to keep you busy."

Dean groans. "Why do I get the feeling you're gonna stick me down in the file room?"

Regal grins this wicked, amused grin. "Because you're a sharp young man. I know how much you love dealing with paperwork. You'll get to see why I stay on your case as much as I do."

Not for the first time, Roman finds himself wondering if those two aren't somehow related.

"Oh, fuuuuuuck that," Dean grouses. He looks at Dr. Zayn. "Help me out, here, Doc. Tell 'im organizing files 'n shit is gonna be too hard. All that reachin' 'n shit? Can't be good for me, right?"

"That's a bit of a reach," Dr. Zayn says.

Everyone laughs.

Roman finally releases a breath it feels like he's been holding since he got here.

* * *

_iv. ...or not_

It's a measure of how drop-dead, out-of-it tired he is that Dean doesn't protest at all when, four hours later, Roman leads him upstairs to their bedroom, helps him change into shorts and a tee shirt, and tucks him into bed - their bed - with a trio of ice packs on his arm. This is probably the first time in all of recorded history this has ever happened.

Dean is the _worst_ when it comes to letting anybody fuss over him when he's sick, generally refusing to even stay in bed unless he's so sick he can't actually stand up. Even then, even when he's on the verge of passing out like he was the one time he had the flu, he'll still try to move around. He hates it when people try to take care of him because he hates feeling helpless. Which - yeah, Roman's not exactly a prince himself when he's feeling like hell (who is?), but he's perfectly fine parking his ass in bed and staying there.

Apparently the combination of medication and bone-deep fatigue are enough to suck all the stubborn out of Dean's sails, a thing for which Roman is profoundly grateful.

He's exhausted himself, relief and waning adrenaline and Dean just being _home_ catching up to him all at once, and he feels like he weighs about ten extra pounds when he makes his careful way in under the covers.

To his surprise, Dean's eyes are still open, little slits reflecting the Christmas movie - one of the Tim Allen _Santa Claus_ ones - playing on TV.

"Y'okay?" Roman asks.

"'S gonna ask you how it went at your mom's today," Dean says in a quiet, slurry mumble. "Er, yesterday now, huh? 'S after midnight."

"Christmas Eve," Roman agrees. "It was good. We got a lot further this year than we did last year. But everybody was disappointed the chief cookie decorator wasn't there. Mom even had sheets of plastic in the dining room just in case World War Frosting broke out."

"'S almost like she's encouraging it," Dean says.

"I'm pretty sure she was."

"Your family is fucking amazing, you know that?"

"I do, but they're your family, too." Roman rolls over to his side so he's facing Dean, and props himself up on an elbow. "I told Mom we might not make it over tomorrow. I know you're gonna be pretty damn sore."

"Should be good for a few hours, at least," Dean says, turning his head Roman's way, "but I dunno 'bout church. 'S always crowded."

"We'll see how you feel in the morning," Roman tells him. "Mom might actually kick my ass if I drag you out tomorrow."

"Love to see that," Dean says. In the near-dark it's too hard to see his expression, but Roman can hear the smile. "But, nah. She'll be happy t'see me. She loves me."

"She does," Roman says. "The whole family does." This feels like an opening, so he takes a breath and adds, "So do I."

The TV flickers white and green and red light between them. Dean, propped up on his pillows, clears his throat. "Don't get all mushy."

"I'm not." Roman's heart feels like it's about to beat a hole in his spine. "I'm just proud of what you did. You know? Glad you're okay. I've had some time to think about things today, too. About Vegas. That whole situation. Us. I've-"

"Don't," Dean says through a sigh. "Really don't wanna talk 'bout this while 'm all fucked up on painkillers 'n not thinkin' straight."

"-been...oh." Roman stops, wincing. Master of bad timing strikes again. "Yeah, you got a point there. Well, it'll keep, anyway. I was just gonna say, if you want, maybe we can talk about us being a thing. I'd be up for it, if you still want to, but we can - when you're ready, we can talk about all this stuff."

There it is. It's out there now. He can't take it back.

He watches the light from the TV flicker across Dean's face, green-gold-white-red, the way the lights from the fountains at the Bellagio had, the way the neon signs had, the way the slot machines had. It dances and shifts and drags shadows that make it hard to tell what Dean's thinking.

What Dean says is, "When 'm ready, we will," and that's it.

Hell of a poker face on that guy.

It's no wonder he'd cleaned up in Vegas.

Roman half-expects to spend the night awake, too keyed up from the nerves and the stress of the last four hours, but he's out almost as soon as Dean.

_v. part of the family_

Dean doesn't bring it up at all on Christmas Eve.

Roman starts to at a couple points - in the car on the way to his parents' house and again on the way home later that afternoon - but thinks better of it: he needs to let Dean come to it in his own time, and not make the mistake of pushing. This whole thing feels like it's been Roman pushing. Now it's his time to back off and wait, to let Dean sort through everything.

Wait and hope.

It's crazy how quick he went from _it's not like that_ and _what if it doesn't work_ to hoping like hell that Dean decides it's worth it to take a risk. This whole week has been a whirlwind of changes, but when he'd woken up this morning, it still felt like he'd made the right call.

He breaks away from helping his sisters finish up the baskets to go poke his head into the dining room, where Dean's applying frosting to gingerbread people with his good hand. The kids are giggling, and Roman sees why when Dean glances over: somebody had drawn lines of frosting over Dean's eyebrows and given him a thin white frosting beard. And he'd acquired a Santa hat from somewhere.

He looks up at Roman with those very blue eyes all warm and happy and says, "Ho ho ho. Wanna come sit in Deano Claus' lap, little boy?"

"Domb-ass," Roman laughs, and he's still laughing when Mom comes by to take some pictures.

While he's pretending to sit in Dean's lap, Roman finds himself fighting off the temptation to lick the frosting off of Dean's cheek. There are kids around, though, and his mom, so Roman confines himself to giving Deano Claus bunny ears in one picture. Probably wouldn't be all that nice to lick that frosting off, anyway: Dean hadn't shaved today, so Roman's sure he'd get road rash on his tongue from the stubble.

Mom doesn't say a word during any of this, but she looks at Roman almost like she knows something.

He catches his sisters giving him the same knowing looks when he heads back to start hauling the baskets out to the trailer.

Dad has Roman come with him to start dropping everything off to the churches, and on the way to the second church, he says, "I know your mother's already told you this, son, but I wanted you to hear this from me. What's most important in this family is the love. Loving and being loved. As long as you're happy, then the rest doesn't matter."

"So if I'm in love with a car, that's okay?" Roman jokes. "I saw a sweet Beamer the other day I wanted to marry."

He takes after his dad a lot, but never as much as when they're both grinning. Dad laughs. "What happened to that Escalade you had your eye on?"

"Better curves on the Beamer."

"Better headlights on the Caddy, though," Dad says. He glances over. "Or do you not like headlights anymore?"

"I like headlights just fine," Roman says.

"But you like stick-shifts, too?"

Roman readjusts his seat belt, considering. "I wouldn't go that far. The car I really like has one.  That's all. I don't think I'm really into stick-shifts _per se_."

"You just like a car that has one," Dad nods. "Oh."

"Yeah, I don't think I'd choose a car with a stick-shift again, if this didn't work out," Roman says. He turns to look at his dad. "That okay?  I haven't actually, uh, driven the car yet or anything, but I might, if I get the keys."

"I'm not surprised, if that tells you anything," Dad says, briefly meeting Roman's gaze again. "That's why I never said much when Mom kept trying to get you into all these other cars. You've always been real attached to this car. It's a good one, at least. People can say whatever they want, but if my son is happy with his car, then that's all I care about. Just don't tell me what you guys do with your tailpipes, huh?"

"Dad!" Roman says, laughing in surprise. "That - no. Not happening."

 _Wow_.

"What?" Dad says. "I wouldn't put it past your car to say something about that."

"Give him a little credit, Dad," Roman says. "He knows better than to say stuff like that around the family." _I hope_. "'We're not actually together yet.  I'm trying to get us that way, but I'm waiting on him to think about it."

"Ah." Dad nods. "Well, if you do, and if, down the line, you and your car want to adopt some little go-karts, let me know. I know somebody who can walk you through the process."

Roman whips around to stare at his dad. "I've never actually asked if he wants go-karts, but if we ever get to the point where we do, I'll let you know. That's gonna be way down the road, though. So to speak."

"I know."

"You getting grand...uh, go-kart fever, too?"

"I might," Dad admits. "I miss having little ones around. I'd like you to have some of your one day. But you're young yet. You have plenty of time. You need to figure things out with your car first, I guess."

"Right," Roman says.

"Just be happy, boy," Dad says. "That's all."

"I'll try, Dad," Roman says, touched and pleased and warm all over.

* * *

 _vi._ "... _mr. grinch_ "

Roman and his dad finish dropping off all the toys and gift baskets and cookies late afternoon, and by the time they make it back to Mom and Dad's house, Roman can tell Dean's pretty wiped. He's resting in a chair in the main living room with ice packs on his arm, watching _Frosty the Snowman_ with the kids, eyes half-lidded and his face a little pale.

Mom tells Roman in no uncertain terms to "get that boy home and put him to bed."

She doesn't have to tell Roman twice, and Dean doesn't say a word in protest when Roman tells him they're skipping dinner and church tonight.

Before they leave, though, Mom pulls Roman aside and hands him a large gift wrapped in shiny silver paper with a bright red bow in the corner. It's rectangular, about a foot wide and about a foot and a half tall. Not real thick, though, and not all that heavy.

"What's this?" he asks.

"For you," Mom says, patting his arm. "It's from Dean."

"Why do you have it?"

"You'll see," Mom says with a mysterious smile. "Now go on. Go take care of him. We'll see you tomorrow, honey."

The whole way home, Roman wonders about the gift, but doesn't ask. As tired as Dean looks, he won't want to talk right now. Tomorrow's Christmas, anyway, so he'll find out then.

Maybe he'll find out everything tomorrow.

Roman carries the gift inside behind a limping Dean, who immediately sits down on the couch with a sigh.

They stay there most of the evening, Roman ordering a couple pizzas and cracking bottles of water. Dean takes another pain pill and zonks out for a while after he eats, leaving Roman to flip through all the different Christmas movies and stuff on TV. He finds _Die Hard_ and leaves it just in case Dean wakes up.

When Dean does wake up, he blinks over at Roman, who says, "Hey, sleepyhead. Think you wanna head upstairs to bed?"

Dean nods. "TIme's it?"

"About ten."

"Mm. Hey, do me a favor." He points at a small blue package under their little tree. "'S tradition to open a gift on Christmas Eve, right? Go get that one 'n open it. 'S for you."

Roman gets up, stretches, and heads over. "You want to open one, too?"

"Nah, I'll wait 'til tomorrow," Dean says, digging his sling's strap out of his neck. "Jus' get that one. Bring it upstairs."

Roman picks up the little package and makes quick work of the wrapping paper, revealing a DVD.

The original cartoon version of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas._

"Look," Dean says, sleepy and smiling, "'s your autobiography."

"My-!" Roman looks up in mock outrage. "I am not a damn Grinch!"

"I dunno," Dean says, "I think your heart's kinda grown a size or two the last few days. 'S nice." He fights his way to his feet and stands there swaying. "C'mon, Mr. Grinch. 'S go watch it."

And that night, Boris Karloff sings them both to sleep.

* * *

_vii. spin_

Christmas morning find Roman up early, thanks to an empty bed and the smell of coffee wafting up from downstairs.

They're both kids at heart, he and Dean, and never sleep in on Christmas.

Apparently not even being hurt can stop Dean from upholding that tradition.

After a quick pit stop into the bathroom to use the toilet and pull his hair back into a better bun, Roman throws on a tee shirt and heads downstairs. He finds Dean in the living room, sitting on the couch with his feet propped up and a mug of coffee right by them. On TV, _A Christmas Story_ is playing, little Ralphie frantically writing his essay about why he wants his Red Ryder BB Gun.

Dean glances around when Roman pads off to the kitchen. "Morning. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Roman replies. "Been up long?"

"Not really," Dean says. "Hey, would you grab me a bowl of cereal while you're in there? I tried, but I don't have enough hands."

"Froot Loops or Frosted Flakes?"

"Surprise me."

Which is Dean-speak or Froot Loops. It's always Froot Loops. Dean will probably pout if it's not.

Roman pours himself a cup of coffee and fixes a couple bowls of cereal: Dean's beloved sugary little Os and Corn Chex with bananas cut into them for Roman himself. He'd lost his taste for super sweet cereals years ago, something that had once prompted Dean to look over and say, "You're turning into an old man, Reigns."

"Rather not give myself diabetes," Roman had shot back.

He gets everything over to the coffee table in a couple trips, and joins Dean on the couch. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm a hundred," Dean admits, leaning forward to dig his spoon into his cereal. Roman had pulled the coffee table closer to make it easier, but Dean's moving slow and easy like there's glass in his joints he doesn't want to shatter. "I took some ibuprofen here a bit ago. If that doesn't knock it back, I'll take half a pain pill or something."

"Just a half?"

"I hate how fuzzy that shit makes me feel."

"Mm." Roman sets his coffee down and grabs his own spoon. "Makes you feel better, though."

"True." Dean shovels in a big-ass bite of his food - _damn heathen_ \- and then turns to reach for something he'd set beside his legs, half tucked under the blanket. "Here," he says, handing over what turns out to be the gift Mom had handed Roman to take last night. "While we're eating, I want you to open this."

Roman takes the thing in both hands. It's as wide as his chest and would come up to his knees if he stood it up on the floor. Thin, though, and not too heavy. "You want me to do this now? 'Cuz I'll be done eating in a minute."

"I know, but just do it, wouldya?" Dean's lower lip's caught in his teeth. "'S was my idea. I just - I had to have your mom help me with some of it. Open it."

Curious, Roman tears the wrapping off, not bothering to be neat or careful about it. His family's never been like that. Opening gifts means _you tear that damn wrapping paper off_ , period. So Roman does, tossing the shiny silver off to one side, and revealing a photo collage.

All pictures of just him and Dean through the years.

There's the first photo Mom took of them, back during Dean's first sleep-over, when they'd sat on the back porch and watched the sun set over the water. The picture was taken from behind, but they've turned to each other and are laughing about something.

There are their graduation photos, all together in a cluster. The first: Roman in a gray cap and gown with Dean in a plain white tee shirt and jeans. The second: Dean in a black cap and gown with Roman beside him in a nice button down and slacks. The third: Roman's college graduation with Dean in that god-awful suit. Cheesy grins and awkward poses.

Holiday pictures. Christmases where they'd been grinning at each other over cookies. The Halloween they went to a party dressed as their favorite wrestlers. They'd both wanted to be Bret Hart, but Roman had agreed to go as the Undertaker. Dean in that brown-haired wig and wrap-around shades he'd found was kind of hilarious, and Roman thought he'd never looked more bad-ass in that hat and the trench coat.

Some of the selfies Roman had taken over the years are here, too, from the various trips they've taken. There's even a recent one from Wyler's Peak, and Roman understands: that's probably why Mom had to help with this. She had to have been the one who printed them.

And the one that gives Roman pause: he and Dean asleep together on the living room couch at Mom and Dad's house. Dean's sick-skinny in the picture and Roman himself looks exhausted. That was the night Dean agreed to leave Florida with Roman to get the hell away from his drug addiction. The night Roman barely slept for fear he'd wake up and Dean would be gone.

But it was the night he'd gotten his friend back for good.

"...wow," he says, smiling down at a picture of them from the Christmas party the other night. "This is great, man. It's - damn."

"We look pretty fuckin' good, don't we," Dean says, swallowing another bite of cereal. "Figured you might like that for your office."

"Yeah, man, that's perfect." Roman sets it down on the coffee table, and continues to look at it while he starts in on his breakfast. "We do look good."

"So you said you were thinkin' about us bein' a thing, huh?" Dean says, eyes glued to the TV. "Thought you got that all out of your system in Vegas."

Roman sinks a banana in his milk, and watches it float to the top. "I didn't. I don't know what happened there, man, but I'm sorry about all that."

"You panicked," Dean says. "And instead of, y'know, actually tryin' to talk to me about it, you just slammed the fucking door in my face. That's what happened. You panicked, Rome. Which - yeah, maybe I shouldn't have brought up the whole 'us bein' a thing' thing at the time, but it kinda caught me off-guard. Here I didn't think anything like that would ever happen, and then you come along and fuck everything up. I started hoping again. Then you slammed the fucking door in my face. So you can maybe see why I'm kinda skeptical."

"Skeptical."

"Yeah. My best buddy suddenly deciding he wants to suck face with me when he's never showed any interest in eight years?"

"Maybe I finally opened my eyes and saw what was right in front of my face," Roman says quietly. He looks at Dean when he says this. "Maybe I finally figured out why I've been dragging my feet finding anyone for the last year. Why do I need to when I got somebody I already love right here? Maybe I finally just woke the hell up."

Dean opens his mouth and closes it, staring hard at Roman while he does, spoon frozen an inch above his mostly-empty bowl. Roman tries not to smile: he can count on one hand the number of times he's managed to render his friend here speechless.

"I won't lie and say I'm not nervous about it," Roman goes on, since he has the chance. "Lot to lose if this doesn't work out. You know?"

"I don't think I'm gonna hate you if it turns out we're better off as friends, Rome," Dean says. It's Roman's turn to be taken aback. "Especially if we went into this knowin' we can stop it if it doesn't feel right."

"That is very true," Roman admits. "I didn't even think about that. Could we do that?"

"Long as you fuckin' talk to me about it first and don't just cut me off." Pointed. "'S not just you and what you want here. It's me and what I want, too. I can't believe I'm the one actually saying this, but we gotta talk about shit sometimes. I didn't deserve that bullshit in Vegas. I don't ever wanna feel like that again. So you fuckin' talk to me here, and I'll try to do the same."

"I will," Roman promises. He means it more than he's ever meant anything. "I won't do that you again. Ever. So...?"

_Are we doing this?_

_Are we a thing?_

"Hang on." Dean turns away again to dig something else out from underneath his blanket. His sprig of mistletoe, it turns out, that he'd almost worn over his dick to the Christmas party. He holds it over Roman's head. "I really fuckin' love you. So. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Roman murmurs, and then they're kissing, Dean leaning forward, stiff and careful of his arm, to catch Roman on the mouth. He can taste the milk and sugar-sweet cereal on Dean's lips. He has to shift a bit, though, so they're facing each other more squarely. He catches Dean's fever-hot cheeks between a couple hands to keep Dean still. Dean's good hand falls onto Roman's shoulder, clutches at it just as he licks his way into Roman's mouth, tongue just kind of sliding right in, confident and bold. Roman lets him.

That push-pull thing he likes so well.

He lets Dean kiss him until everything's quiet, until that knot of buzzing tension relaxes. Until it sinks in that they're doing this. When that hits, Roman surges forward to take control, breaking away to kiss at Dean's jaw and down the side his neck and back up again, not leaving marks but mapping out all the places he _could_ , if he wanted to. He kisses Dean until he hears Dean making those little noises - bitten-back groans and hums - is stupidly happy to realize he can do this whenever the hell he wants to.

This is a thing. They're a couple. That's what couples do.

He's careful, though, not to push too much: as lost as gets in the prickle of stubble under his fingerips and the restless way Dean kisses him back, the part where Dean's hurt is never far from mind.

They have time.

Eventually, they come up for air, Roman sitting back just enough to make comfortable eye contact. Dean's eyes are a little glazed over, not quite focused. But he smiles wide enough to pop his dimples. "Fuck, you're good at that."

"So are you," Roman says, an answering smile sneaking out on its own.

Dean shifts around a little, hand drifting down to his lap. "So, like. What about the sex part? I know you're not exactly used to havin' more 'n one dick involved..."

"I have a book I can read," Roman says.

Predictably, Dean looks outraged. "Fuck that. Practical experience is the best teacher."

Roman laughs. "You're probably right. But, no. I don't know. It's definitely gonna take some getting used to. I don't know how ready I'm gonna be to just dive all the way in at first.  But I'm willing to give it a shot." It's as much about making his partner feel good as it is making himself feel good. That much he knows.  That much he can handle.  He wishes he'd remembered that a few days ago. "I didn't have any trouble with things in Vegas."

"We don't have to jump straight into the fucking right away," Dean says. "Not gonna be up for that 'til I've healed up more, anyway. Other things we can do in the meantime, though, 'f you want to."

Something in his voice catches Roman's attention, and he looks down at the hand half-curled over the front of Dean's shorts. "Do you want to?"

"It's really unfair how, like, _hot_ you are, Rome. I swear to God you don't even know it. You are so fuckin' oblivious. Fuckin' turns me on like crazy. Everything about you does." Dean's neck and ears turn red. "Yes, I do. But if you don't want to, I'll take care of it in the shower later."

"You're not so bad yourself," Roman says, and feels a rush of warmth headed south. "I don't think I mind."

"Good," Dean says, grabbing Roman's hand and dropping it into his lap. "'Cuz I was gonna be kinda bummed if I didn't get to say 'I got another present for you to unwrap' today. I got another present for ya. Wanna unwrap it?"

Swallowing back a sudden attack of nerves, Roman snorts and flattens his palm over the hardening line of Dean's dick. It's buried under a layer of shorts and underwear, but no mistaking Dean's turned on. "Sure," he says, rubbing a slow line back and forth over it. He watches Dean's face as he does. Dean's eyes go half-lidded, and he lets his head fall back against the top of the couch, knees wide.

After a silent five count, Roman lifts the bottom of Dean's tee shirt out of the way, and tugs down his shorts. Dean lifts his hips enough to help, his dick springing free like some kind of obscene Jack-In-The-Box.

"Surprised you didn't put your dick in a box," Roman comments.

"Hey, I'm a classy guy," Dean protests. "I've never actually dated a dude before, but even I know you don't do that kinda shit unless you've been together for a while."

"Classy," Roman snorts, wrapping his fingers around Dean's dick.

"Very," Dean says, breathless. "Move closer. Lemme unwrap your package, too."

"Would you stop?" Roman says, laughing again. But he obliges, turning sideways so he's facing Dean and scooting closer so Dean's wandering right hand has access. He's not hard when he slips his shorts down, but the way things start heating up again when Dean touches him, he knows it won't take much.

It's weird.

Christmas morning handjobs weren't exactly on Roman's list of things to do today. It's not what he might have expected for his first real time for them, and definitely a little more to-the-point than he likes to be, but foreplay and all that might have to wait until Dean's feeling a little better.

He finally dares himself to look down at Dean's dick - Dean's not shy about getting an eyeful of Roman's - and, yeah, it's a dick. It's a shade or two darker than the rest of Dean's skin and red at the tip. Cut like Roman's. Roman twists his hand up and down the length of it, alternating between fast and slow, and watches Dean's face start to flush. Feels heat in his own face when he gets hard: Dean's hand is calloused and strong, and feels good, the way he starts most strokes off by rolling Roman's balls between a couple fingers and then moving up slow, rolling his thumb over Roman's tip, and traveling back down again.

Roman leans over to kiss Dean again, and that helps. Them not staring at each other like a couple of awkward teenagers, yeah, that's a lot better

They both pick up their pace, jerking faster, and kiss loose and sloppy. Dean groans into it after Roman gives him a particularly tight stroke, and Roman feels genuine _want_ surge through him. Those sounds Dean makes in that low, gravelly voice of his, man, they _do things_ to Roman. And suddenly he doesn't really care if there's a dick that's not his in his hand. He's making Dean feel good. That's what matters. And Dean, with his quick-to-fast hands touching Roman everywhere, he's doing a damn good job reciprocating.

Dean breaks away from the kiss long enough to pant, "Fuck, I'm there."

"Do it," Roman says into his ear. Demands. Commands. "Do it, man."

" _Shit_." Dean's hand falters to a stop on Roman's dick as he comes, body stiffening for a second and then relaxing when he spills all over his stomach, the front of his shorts, and Dean's hand. " _Fuck_."

He closes his eyes, Dean does, and latches back onto Roman, who's close himself. It doesn't take long, those calloused fingers dragging Roman right up to and over the edge. " _Damn_ ," Roman grits out, hand a fist at the top of the couch. His mess joins Dean's on Dean's stomach and the front of Dean's shorts.

Roman catches Dean for an out-of-breath kiss until the tingling subsides.

Afterward, they pull away and just look at each other.

Dean's a mess, covered with something that definitely ain't frosting, but if it bothers him, it doesn't show. He seems to be looking for something, the way he's searching Roman's face.

"We good?" he finally asks.

"Yeah," Roman says, settling a hand in the middle of Dean's chest.  He really is. "Yeah, we're good. Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Rome."

* * *

_vii. and many more_

When Roman leads Dean into Mom and Dad's house later that morning, the whole family's first reaction is delighted laughter at the ridiculous suit Dean's wearing. It's the red one, with all the white candy canes and sleighs and Santa hats printed on it. Sleigh bells on the pockets. He's got that tie with the Christmas lights blinking in it. His Santa hat, too. He couldn't actually put the jacket on with his arm in the sling, but they'd thrown it over his shoulders. It's enough.

It's plenty.

It's _Dean_.

And when Roman reaches out to take Dean's hand, to lace their fingers together, everyone just smiles.

That afternoon, stuffed from a huge dinner and too many cookies, Roman plops down on the living room couch to take a selfie with Dean. Who has a beheaded gingerbread person in his mouth. Roman does not tell him to take it out.

He texts the photo to all their friends with the caption, _Merry Christmas from your favorite couple_.

Predictably Seth's the first to text back: _ABOUT FUCKIN TIME! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME! YOU JUST WON ME $1000!_

Dean, peering over Roman's shoulder, huffs. "That fucker better give us a cut of that. Makin' money off us. What the hell?"

Antonio's text comes in next: _You should have waited until New Year's. But I'm very happy for you._

 _Aw, how sweet,_ Bayley texts, _I thought for sure it'd be Valentine's day, though_. _Darn it._

"We need new friends," Dean deadpans.

"Yeah," Roman sighs. "We really, really do."

* * *

 _ix. Epilogue_  
**The Next Christmas**

When Reigns Pharmaceutical's vice president of Marketing Roman Reigns heads downstairs on Christmas morning, he's expecting to find probationary police officer Dean Ambrose parked on the couch, impatient to start opening presents.

What he finds instead is probationary police officer Dean Ambrose parked under the tree, wearing nothing but a Santa hat, crinkly silver wrapping paper underwear, and a bright red bow over his dick.

Roman just laughs.

He really couldn't think of a more perfect gift than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Gooshy happy ending because why not?


End file.
